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Philadelphia 



The Fruit of His Folly 



I* 



A Society Drama in Five Acts 



BY / 
ARTHUR LEWIS TUBES 



" The heart that loves truly, love, never forg:ets, 
But as truly loves on to the close ; 
As the sunflower turns to her god, as he sets, 
The same look that she turned when he rose." 

—Moore. 



Philadelphia 

The Penn Publishing Company 

1894 

- — K- 









Copyright 1894 by The Penn Publishing Company 



/Z df^''i(? 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 

CAST OF CHARACTERS 

Jack Dunning, . . . A Victim of His Ow?i Folly 

Percy Ogden A True Fneiid. 

Ashley Drayton, . . . A Ma?i of the World. 
Hiram BOGGS, . . . Oitmer of Cowslip Farm. 

William Henry, . The Hired Man. \ This part can be 
Bell Boy, . . At Tremowit Hotel.] doubled 

Dorothy Dunning, jack's Wife. 

^LiCE Grandon A Society Pet. 

Melinda Jane BoGGS, . . From Jimiperville, Vt. 

^'^^'^" Hiram's Better Half. 

Polly Flinders a Black Diamond. 

Time in playing about two hours. 



SYNOPSIS 

Act I. — Jack Dunning-'s residence, New York city. The 
dinner-party, " No rose witiiout a thorn." Troubled 
waters. An arrival from the country. Jack's confession 
to Percy. " I have staked all." Life or death. The 
telegram. Suspense. A wife's suspicion. " It is death r 
Almost a suicide. 

Act II. — Polly Flinders shocks Miss Boggs. Percy and 
Alice, the peacemakers. The first kiss. " The ups and 
downs of married life." A man of the world. Dorothy 
learns the truth. Percy's pleadings. " Remember your 
marriage vow." Love's mastery. The promise. Mis- 
led. 

Act III. — The shadows deepen. PoHy wants to die. A 
friend in need. Dorothy's despair. A memory of the 
past, pleading for the future. " The heart that loves 
truly." 

Act IV. — (Six months later.) Tremont hotel, Boston. 
Apartments occupied by Jack Dunning. Remorse. Dray- 
ton's confession. The money. New arrivals. " That 
man and my — !" Face to face. Undeceived. 

Act V. — Cowslip farm, Juniperville. Vt. December. Ex- 
pected company. " A newly married bridal couple." 
Greetings. Reunited. Sunshine through the clouds. 
" Should old acquaintance be forgot ?" Happy ending. 



COSTUMES 



Jack. Act I. — Full dress. Act II. — Street or business 
suit. Acts IV and V. — Ordinary dark suit. 

Percy. Act I. — Full dress. Act II. — Light trousers, 
frock coat. Act IV. — Traveling suit. Act V. — Same as 
Act IV, with hat, ulster, etc. 

Drayton. Act II. — Stylish suit, rather showy ; silk hat, 
gloves and cane. Flowers in button-hole. Act IV. — Plain 
suit. 

Hiram. Act V. — Working clothes, farm style. Change 
to neat suit. 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 5 

William Henry. Working clothes, ulster and cap. 
•Tippet and mittens. 

Bell Boy. Act IV. — Blue suit, brass buttons. 

Dorothy. Act I. — Evening dress. Acts II and III. — 
House dresses. Act V. — Black dress ; change to something 
bright but modest. 

Alice. Act I. — Evening dress. Act II. — House dress. 
Act III. — Street dress, hat. Act IV. — Traveling costume. 
Act V. — Same as Act IV ; heavy wraps. 

Melinda. Act I. — Old-fashioned costume. Shawl, large 
bonnet, mitts, etc. Change to prim house dress, neck 
scarf, etc. Act II. — Same as last in Act I. Act III. — House 
dress. Act V. — Neat dress, apron. 

Polly. Act I. — Neat dress, rather gay. White apron, 
cap. Acts II and III. — Same. Act V. — Calico dress, large 
apron. 

Sarah. Act V. — Tidy calico dress, white apron, cap 
and spectacles. 



PROPERTIES 



Act I. — Door bell. Book on table. Telegram for Polly. 
Pistol for Jack. Carpet-bag and contents ; band-box, etc., 
for Melinda. 

Act II. — Book of poems. Bell. Picture of Dorothy in 
frame on table. 

Act III. — Book of poems on table. 

Act IV. — Decanter of wine and glasses. Pack of cards. 
Newspaper. Money for Drayton. 

Act V. — Pants (Hiram's). Sleigh-bells. Four eggs for 
Polly. Satchels. Letter for Melinda. 



STAGE DIRECTIONS 

The player is supposed to face the audience. R. means 
right ; L. left ; C. centre ; R. C. right centre ; L. C. left 
centre ; D. F. door in flat running across the back of stage ; 
R. F. right side of flat ; L. F. left side of flat ; R. D. right 
door ; L. D. left door. 

R. R. C. C. L. C. L. 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 



ACT I 



Scene. — Handsomely furnished parlor in Jack Cunning's 
residence, Lenox Avenue, New York. Table ivith 
books, etc. Dorothy and Alice discovered in evening 
dress. Dorothy seated, r. c, Alice, l. c. Pause after 
rise of curtain. 

Alice. What a perfect little bird's nest of a home you 
have, Dorothy dear — so cozy and nice. Really, it is quite 
delightful. 

Dorothy. Oh ! yes, it is very comfortable indeed, and 
quite large enough for us. There are only we two, you 
know — Jack and I — besides the servants. And then, we 
have room for visitors, and manage to get along very 
nicely. 

Alice. Yes, just you and Jack. Dear me ! you were al- 
ways the luckiest girl I knew, as well as the prettiest. 

Dorothy. Alice! 

Alice. Well you were. You got all the prizes at school, 
had the most beaux, and carried off Jack Dunning, when 
half a score of the other girls were crazy to get him. 

Dorothy. Alice, dear, don't run on so. You gush just 
as badly as ever, I see. That was always your worst fault. 

Alice. Yes, I suppose so. But the truth will bubble 
out, you know, like the babbling brook. It cannot be con- 
fined. But where does Jack keep himself nowadays ? I 
haven't seen him for an age until to-night. It was quite con- 
siderate in you to invite me to dinner to-day, as it gives me 
an opportunity of becoming better acquainted with your 
husband. 

Dorothy. Just as if you hadn't known him for years ; as 
long as I have, for that matter. 

Alice. Well, yes. But after he became so attentive to 
you, I saw very little of him ; and since you were married — 
goodness ! you seem to have buried yourself in each other ! 

Dorothy. No, Alice, it is not that. Of late Jack seems 
to have urgent business away from home. I do not see 
him, sometimes, for days at a time. He is away a great 
deal. 

7 



8 THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 

Alice. Is, eh ? Let me see — married — how long is it ? 
Dorothy. What — that we've been married ? 
Alice. Yes. 

Dorothy. A Httle over six months. 
Alice. Yes, six. Now we girls used to figure it down 
to a pretty fine tiling {counting on her fingers, slomly), first 
month, all devotion ; second month, a little less devotion ; 
third month, devotion ; fourth month, attention ; fifth month, 
a little less attention ; sixth month, carelessness. That's 
just about now. 

Dorothy. Why, what do you mean ? 
Alice. Husbands, you know. Their devotion kind of 
wears out — the gloss wears off as it does from a new pair o 
gloves. They don't come home so early the sixth month as 
they did the first ; they don't kiss you so often. 

Dorothy. Indeed, Alice, you know nothing about it. 
Why should you ? 

Alice. And why shouldn't I ? I am a pretty good judge 
of human nature. 

Dorothy. But you have no husband, and you do not 
know that Jack is growing careless or less attentive to me. 
You are still a silly girl, I see. 

Alice. Yes, I suppose so. Mother is always scolding 
me for talking more than my share and saying things I 
ought not to. But, really, I hope you don't mind what I 
have said ? 

Dorothy. No, no — only I — {Brokenlj) O Alice! you 
told the truth. 

Alice. What — when ? 

Dorothy. Just now. It is carelessness, forgetfulness. 
Jack is that way, and it breaks my heart ! 
Alice. No! 

Dorothy. Yes ; I cannot conceal it from you. It is 
true. {Bursting into tears.) 

Alice, {hurriedly) He isn't, either ! I know better; he is 

the best, truest man I ever saw, and he couldn't get that way ! 

Dorothy. Alice, it is true. You are trying now to cover 

up what you said before. Jack is not what he was ; he stays 

out later; he does not seem to love me so well as he did. 

Alice. You cannot expect him to show it quite so much, 
I tell you. It is natural to get used to it and not be quite so 
demonstrative. But he loves you just the same. 
Dorothy. Do you think so ? 

Alice. I know it. I know Jack Dunning, and I am sure 
that it is only his way. He does not mean to be unkind ; 
you must overlook it. I'll speak to Jack about it. 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 9 

Dorothy. Oti ! don't you dare ! That would be dreadful. 

Alice. Of course it would, and I would not do it for the 
world. I simply said that to frighten you. But you will not 
worry any more, will you ? 

Dorothy. No, Alice, I will not. Perhaps it is all my 
own fault. I will do better in the future and try to be a bet- 
ter wife ; then I am sure I will find no cause to complain. 
But I am certain my eyes are red. How foolish of me to 
weep ! 

Alice. Oh ! that's nothing. The flowers of love must 
be watered with a few tears, you know, or they would fade. 

Dorothy. True, I feel relieved now for my silly crying 
spell, and I do not think I shall need another very soon. 
I will go to my room for a moment and bathe my eyes, 
if you will excuse me. 

Alice. Oh ! certainly. ( Taking book from table) I will 
look at this book while you are gone. 

Dorothy. Very well. I will not be gone long. Jack 
and Mr. Ogden are having a chat in the library, and I will 
call them if you like. 

Alice. No, indeed ; do not disturb them. I do not mind 
remaining alone. I've got to get used to it, seeing I am 
doomed to be an old maid. 

Dorothy. Ha ! ha ! I guess there is not much danger 
of that. 

Exit Dorothy, r., laygJiing. 

Alice, {looking after her) Ah ! me, how true it is that 
every rose has its thorns ! When those two were married 
I was sure there was never a happier or a better match 
made in the world. And it was a good match, I am sure, 
for there was love on both sides. But wealth only on one. 
Now, that is the dangerous part of it. Dorothy had some 
money; not much, to be sure, but forty or fifty thousand 
dollars is quite a little fortune. And Jack— well, I hardly 
know what to think of him. Somehow I believe it seems 
to him that his wife's wealth is unlimited. That is because 
lie had never had more than a fair salary before he married 
ner, and, now that she has given all she had into his posses- 
sion, he feels as rich as a Vanderbilt. I am sure I hope no 
harm will come of it, but Jack was always rash, impulsi-ve, 
and yielding. He is easily carried before the wind, and 
with his extravagant tastes I fear that Dorothy's little for- 
tune will soon vanish. He seems to be attempting to hide 
something, of late, with his unwonted gayety and light- 
heartedness. I think Dorothy mistrusts something, too, 



10 THE FRCIT OF HIS FOLLY 

but perhaps it is only my imagination ; I hope that is all. 
Ah ! me, the course of true love never runs smoothly. 

Bell rings. 

Alice. The door-bell. It may be callers, or some one 
to see Jack on business, so I will withdraw until they have 
gone. {Exit, l.) 

Enter Dorothy, r., a7id Polly, c. d., at same tiyne, 

Polly. There's a lady for to see you, missus. 

Dorothy. A lady, Polly ? 

Polly. Yes, ma'am ; leastwise a female. 

Dorothy. Did she send in her card? 

Polly. La, no, mum. She aint dat ar kind, I reckon. 
She aint no city bird ; I s'mise she's a country jay. 

Dorothy. Polly! 

Polly. Yes, fo' sure. Sez she, " Does Mis' Dunnin' 
live here, her what was Dorothy Grayson ?" and I sez, 
" She do." " Well," sez she, " Pve come to visit her, and — " 

Enter Melinda Jane Boggs, c. d. 

Polly. Here she is now. (Melinda is laden with carpet- 
bag, bundles, etc., which she deposits on floor at back, c. 
Comes down and embraces Dorothy.) 

Melinda. Oh ! it's really you, you dear child! I wouldn't 
hardly a knowed you ! 

Dorothy, {perplexed) And I do notV.\\o\v you, I fear. 

Melinda. Don't you? Why, Pm your Aunt Melinda 
Jane Boggs, from Juniperville, Vt., your mother's aunt on 
her own side, and your great aunt. But, then, you wa'n't 
nothin' but a young infant when I saw you last, so I don't 
know's it's so dretful queer you don't jest reccumember me. 
But it's me and it's you, and here we are. 

During this cojiversation Polly examines Melinda's bun- 
dles, band-box, etc. Ope?is carpet-bag and empties contents 
on floor. Finds apples and eats one. Business. 

Dorothy. Yes, that is quite evident, and I have often 
heard of Aunt Melinda, even if I do not remember your 
face. I am very glad to s'e« you, indeed. Remove your 
things. {Without looking at ^oiA.w) Polly. 

Polly, (ivith mouth full of apple) Yessum. 

Dorothy, {seeing her) Polly, what are you doing? How 
dare you, you bad, bad girl ? 

Melinda. The land sakes ! My things all over the 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY II 

floor. ( To Polly) Oh ! you little heathen, you ought to be 
whipped ! 

Polly. I aint done nothin'. 

Melinda. I should like to know. {Picks up thi?tgs) 

Dorothy. Polly, gather up Miss Boggs' articles and take 
them to the blue room, and see that you conduct yourself 
in a becoming manner. I shall have to speak to Mr. Dun- 
ning about your improper behavior. 

Polly. Yessum. {Gathering things. Offers to take what 
Melinda has) 

Melinda. No, miss, Pll see to these myself. 

Polly, {going, l. u. e.) Golly, I don't care. Mister Jack, 
he never does nothin'. He just laffs, he! he! he! {Exit 
L. u. E., kicking lip heels.) 

Melinda. Land, what a piece she is! I didn't know 
you ever had them kind up North here. 

They sit. Dorothy, r., Melinda, l. 

Dorothy. They are not common ; but Polly was a poor 
little deserted waif when' I found her, in an old tenement 
house. There was no one to befriend her, so I brought her 
home with me. Tiiat was several months ago, and she has 
proved a faithful servant, although naturally mischievous. 

Melinda. Yes, I see. Well, I admire your charity more 
than I do your servant. But did you say I was to have a 
blue room ? 

Dorothy. Yes. 

Melinda. To suit my feelings, I suppose ? Well, Pll 
tell you now, I aint going to get homesick. 

Dorothy. I hope not. 

Melinda. I sha'n't. But what's it blue for? Do you 
have 'em all different colors? 

Dorothy. Yes; our sleeping-rooms are so arranged. 
It makes a pretty effect. 

Melinda. Oh ! yes, I see. But I never should have 
thought of it. {Looking about room) You've got it" fixed 
up real nice here. 

Dorothy. Very comfortable and pleasant, indeed. 

Melinda. S'pose you got a rich man ? 

Dorothy. Well, no, not exactly rich. 

Melinda. In good business, then ? 

Dorothy. Yes, he — we manage very nicely. {Pause) 
I suppose you will make us a nice long visit, Aunt Me- 
linda ? • 

Melinda, Yes, of not above two months or so. I told 
Sarah, that's your Uncle Hiram's, my brother's, second 



12 THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 

wife, sez I, I'm goin' to New York and find Dorothy and 
make her a visit and see something. I aint never been no- 
where much, and I know she'll be glad to see me and use 
me well, or she aint none o' my kin. 

Dorothy. And so I am, aunt, and I am sure my hus- 
band will be glad to see you, also. But how did you ever 
find us, after you reached the city? 

Melinda. Well, that's it. Now, it was a wonder, but I 
guess it was luck. I jest sailed in broadsides and got the 
best of things. You see, your Uncle Hiram cut a piece 
about your weddin' out of some paper, and we saved it. 
It said as how you was to live in New York, and give the 
street and all, so I wasn't afeared. I asked a constable 
with brass buttons on, two or three of 'em (constables), 
how to find the way, and they was real obliging. The 
stage'U bring up my trunk, I s'pose. I told 'em about it 
down there to the railroad. 

Dorothy. I dare say they will attend to it, if you left 
your check. 

Melinda. La, no, I didn't draw no check; I aint got 
enough in the bank. I jest paid 'em in silver. « 

Dorothy. I — I mean the brass check for your trunk. 

Melinda. Oh ! yes. The feller took that when I p'inted 
out which was mine. 

Dorothy. Very well. {Risijig) I will show you to your 
room now. 

Exit, L. u. e. 

Melinda. All right, I'll follow on. {Going) La, it's real 
nice here. Beats our parlor, I must say, and we've got as 
good's there is in Juniperville. 

Exit, L. u. e. 

Enter Polly, l. u. e., looking back. 

Polly. Land, if that aint enough to kill this po' chile ! 
Golly, she's green as ever I see. We'll have a circus, we 



wii 



Jack and Percy laugh and talk, off r. u. e. 



Polly. Dar conies Mister Dunnin'. Reckon I'll skip 
into de kitchen and tell the cook 'bout our company. We's 
goin' to have a circus, we is. He ! he ! 

Exit, c. D. n. 

Enter ]\CK, r. u. y.., followed by Percy, both in full dress. 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 13 

Jack. The ladies are not here. No doubt they will re- 
turn directly. Sit down, Percy. 

They sit, Percy, l., Jack, r. 

Jack. As I was saying, I feel almost like a stranger in 
my own house. I have been away a great deal of late. 

Percy. Out of town ? 

Jack. Yes, for days at a time. 

Percy. On business, of course ; very urgent ? 

Jack. I rather take that as an insinuation that it has 
been otherwise. 

Percy. Why, no, not exactly, but — 

Jack. But ? 

Percy. Well, Jack, I know where you have been, and 
you know that I have known of your frequent visits out of 
town, and that I am entirely aware of your mission. 

Jack. Nothing very bad, surely ? 

Percy. Perhaps you look at it in that light. I cannot. 

Jack. Indeed ! Well, are there not worse places than 
the race track ? 

Percy. Possibly. 

Jack. You are rather hard on a fellow. Come, now, do 
you really think I have done wrong ? 

Percy. Wrong, Jack ? Tell me, does your wife know 
where you have been ? 

Jack. Man alive, no / She would hold up her pretty 
hands in horror if she knew. She has the queerest notions, 
calls such things gambling and all that. 

Percy. And so they are. 

Jack. Pshaw, yes. But she's a perfect little Puritan. 

Percy. Yes, and you fail to appreciate her best qualities. 
She is far too good for you, I fear. Jack Dunning. 

Jack. There, there, now — don't lecture. What's the 
harm ? Can't a fellow have a little innocent sport ? 

Percy. Innocent, yes. But is it innocent ? 

Jack. Certainly. I simply bet a little, lose a little, win a 
little — and mind you, always win more than I lose. That's 
the beauty of it. I suppose you'd call it luck. 

Percy. Yes, luck and chance — gambling. I tell you, 
Jack, I don't believe in it. Fm not a pattern of morality by 
any means, but I would not do as you are doing ; no, sinf 
not for a great deal. I tell you, you'll be sorry, some day, 
if you deceive your wife in this way. Don't be mad at me, 
Jack. We have been friends for a long time and I say this 
with a friendly motive. 

Jack. I know it, Percy, and I accept it in a friendly way. 



14 THE FRLIT OF HIS FOLLY 

I deserve it too, I have no doubt. But I cannot turn back 
now, it is too late. 

Percy. Too late ? 

Jack. Yes, for I have staked my all on the races of to- 
day. I am anxious — half crazy. Everything I have or 
hope hangs in the balance. 

Percy. Jack, what do you mean ? 

Jack. Hush ! Some one may hear us. It is true {look- 
ing aroimd) I tell you, my friend, my fate is to be decided 
to-night. I have bet — bet — bet ! I must, I shall win, or I 
am ruined ! 

Percy. Is it so bad as that ? 

Jack. Yes, worse than you know. But I have resolved, 
and I promise you faithfully, that if I win this time, it iShall 
be my last venture. I will quit the races ; invest in some 
good legitimate business and be a man, so that I may look 
my wife in the face and not fear that I shall reveal a burning 
secret. 

Percy. Well said, old man. But if you lose? 

Jack, {starting). Lose? Do not speak of it. I can't 
lose ; I mustn't. Why, I have bet a cool forty thousand 
on Bessie C, the queen of the turf, the champion. She will 
not lose ! 

Percy. And yet, she jiiay. 

Dorothy, {speaking off l.) I'll be back direcdy, auntie. 

Jack. Not a word of this before my wife. 

Percy. Not for the world. 

Enter Dorothy, l. 

Dorothy. I was looking for you, Jack. I wanted to tell 
you that we have a new guest. 

Jack. Indeed! And who may it be ? 

Dorothy. It is Aunt Melinda. 

Jack. Well, what, when, why, and who is Aunt Melinda ? 

Dorothy. You ridiculous fellow ! Why, she's my Aunt 
Melinda Jane Boggs, from dear old Cowslip farm, in Ver- 
mont, where I was born. She has come to make us a 
visit. 

Jack. Has she ? 

Dorothy. Yes, of not above two months or so. 
, Jack. Can't you prevail upon her to stay a while ? 

Dorothy. Hush ; she may come in at any moment. {To 
Percy) I trust you will pardon us, Mr. Ogden, for speak- 
ing of family matters, but you see it cannot be avoided. 

Percy. Certainly. Perhaps I had better return to the 
library for the present ? 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY I5 

Dorothy, Oh ! no, indeed. We will have dinner now, 
and I want you to meet my aunt before we go to the dining- 
room. 

Percy. Very well ; as you please. 

Jack. Oh ! yes, we must meet the charming Melinda 
Jane. But why don't you show her in, Dot ? 

Dorothy. Hush ! she may hear you. I will go and see 
if she is dressed. 

Dorothy ^oes l., 7nee^s Melinda, w/io enters, lookiyig down, 
tying strings of large gingham apron behind her. 

Melinda. There, Dorothy, I've got my dress changed 
and an apron on; so if there's anytliing I can do, really I'd 
feel more to home to be a helpin'. {Looks up.) La, there's 
some men ! 

Dorothy. Aunt Melinda — Miss Boggs, let me introduce 
my husband, and our friend, Mr. Percy Ogden. 

Melinda. How de do J I hope I see you well, (Jack 
and Percy bow.) 

Jack and Percy. Very well, thank you. 

Melinda. {awkwardly) Mebby I'll go out in the kitchen 
and see what there is to do. 

Dorothy. Oh ! no, auntie, there is nothing for you to do 
but have the best time you can, 

Melinda. Then I'd better take off my apron. 

Dorothy. Yes. We will have dinner directly. 

Melinda. Dinner? Land, aint you had dinner yet? 

Dorothy, No. 

Melinda. 'Taint Monday, is it ? 

Dorothy. Why, no ! 

Melinda. That's what I thought. But I didn't know 
but mebby 'twas wash-day and you only had two meals. 
We don't to home lots of time. 

Dorothy, {smiling) No, it is not that. But it is our 
custom, in the city, to have a luncheon in the middle of the 
day and a course dinner about six o'clock. 

Melinda. Well, I suppose coarse food's healthy. But 
you don't have a regular hot meal at that time ? 

Dorothy. Yes. 

Melinda. 'Taint good for you. You won't git it digested 
by bedtime. I don't s'pose you go to bed very early, 
though ? 

Dorothy. Not very. But if you will excuse me, I will 
give further orders for dinner. 

Melinda. Certainly, but can't I help ? 



l6 THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 

Dorothy. No, thank you. I will return soon. {Exit^ 
c. D. R.) 

Melinda. {taki7tg off apron) Guess I don't need that. 
{Hangs upon her arm.) ( To Percy) She's nice, aint she ? 

Percy. Very. 

Melinda. Does credit to her relations, if I do say it. I 
don't wonder you fell in love with her. 

Percy. Madam ! 

Melinda. Why, you seem surprised ! You ^6> love her, 
I hope ? 

Percy. Well, I — I — {ifidicating Jack) must refer you to 
her husband. 

Melinda. Oh! for goodness sake! Be you the other 
one ? 

Jack. Never mind, Aunt Melinda, there is no harm done. 
Dorothy was not very explicit in her introduction. 

Melinda. Wasn't she ? 

Jack. No. I do not wonder that you were confused. 

Percy. Do not let it worry you, Miss Boggs. I am sure 
no one feels hurt. 

Melinda. I hope it doesn't make no difference. I guess 
I'll go — ril find Dorothy. 

Jack. Very well, if you prefer. 

^;i:z/ Melinda, c. d. r. 
The men sit. 

Jack. Well, that's a go. And so you are in love with 
my wife ? I think I am rather inclined to object. 

Percy. No, I am 7iot in love with your wife, only as I 
admire all pure, lovely women. As such I admire her, but 
not as you do — or should love. 

Jack. Should? 

Percy. Do, perhaps ; but if so, you should do differ- 
ently ; show it more, be — 

Jack, {rising) Percy Ogden, don't go too far! You are 
an old friend of mine, and I will bear much from you, but 
you may say too much ! I do love my wife and am true to 
her. You must not insinuate otherwise. 

Percy, {rising) Why, Jack, I did not. 

Jack. Well, ^<9;2'/ .-^ Your words are like tigers' paws, 
softly covered when you will, but eager and ready to 
scratch ! 

Percy. Jack, what do you mean ? 

Jack. Well, I don't like to be eternally preached at and 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY I7 

told that I am unfit to dwell under my own roof. I may be 
weak — 1 am — but I am not the wretch you think me. 

Percy. Do not say more ; you may be sorry if you do. 
If you think of. me as your words imply, you wrong me 
cruelly. I will go now, before we both say or do something 
which we will regret. 

Jack. No, no; don't go! 

Percy. I think I had better. 

Jack. But you cannot. What would my wife and Miss 
Grandon think ? You came to dinner, and I — why, Percy, 
how foolish I am ! I am ashamed of myself {Extends 
hand) Take my hand and forget it, will you ? 

Percy, {taking Jack's hand) Yes, with all my heart. 
We've been friends too long to quarrel now. 

Jack. Yes, for we never have, and we never will. Sit 
down again, Percy. I have something more to tell you. 

Sit as before. 

Percy. Well ? 

Jack. I do not know what you will think of me, Percy. 
Worse than you have yet, I am sure. But I must tell you. 
I shall go mad if 1 do not confide in some one, and I have 
no one but you. No, do not say I should tell my wife. 
I cannot, I dare not. I would die rather than have her 
know. {Rises ; walks to and fro.) Percy, if Bessie C. lost 
that race this afternoon, as you say she may have done, 
I am a ruined man. 

Percy. Will it be so bad as that ? 

Jack. Worse. It will be a blow that I cannot survive. 
You must know that I did not have forty thousand dollars 
aside from — 

Percy. Jack, you did not — 

Jack. I did. I bet not only my own money, but Doro- 
thy's as well — almost every dollar of it. 

Percy. How could you ? 

Jack. Ah! you did not think me quite so base as that! 
I was in luck yesterday ; I won. I bet again until I lost. 
Then I was crazy — money viad / I wanted to win again, 
and felt that I would ; so I tried. I did win — enough to 
spur me on. This morning I came home, for I had prom- 
ised Dorothy that I would be here for dinner to-night. 
I dare not refuse, for fear she would mistrust something. 
I reached the city with my wife's money untouched, but the 
tempter followed me. I stopped at the club. Ah ! had I 
but come directly home, I need not have suffered this sus- 
pense. It was there that I met Ashley Draytoa 

2 



l8 THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 

Percy. Ah ! 

Jack. You know him ? 

Percy. By reputation. 

Jack. And that is well enough, /know him better than 
that. That man has been my evil genius. It seems to 
me that the greater part of all the wrong I have done I owe 
to him. He is a man who lives upon the gains of others ; 
who has no scruples, if he but wins the game. Yet, he 
is like a serpent ; he flatters, he charms with his wily 
tongue and his piercing eye, till a man mortal as /am can- 
not resist the spell. 

Percy. And such men live and pass as heroes in this 
crooked world. 

Jack. Yes. Well, I saw him at the club. I told him 
where I had been, and then he got me in his toils. He 
spoke of the race this afternoon and said that Bessie C, 
the champion, was sure to win ! urged me to bet. "Wl^iy," 
said he, " whole fortunes will be staked upon her. She 
cannot lose." I declined, but in vain. He gave me a glass 
of wine and talked until I was completely in his power ; he 
led me on. " How much money have you ?" he asked. I 
told him that forty thousand dollars was my all, for I was 
afraid to tell him it was not mine. " A mere trifle," he said, 
" but it will do. Bet it all." 

Percy. And you took that man's advice — such advice 
as that ? 

Jack. I did. I wrote a check for the whole sum and 
gave it to him. He would go and bet it for me, he said, if 
I must come home and could not go. He would surely 
Avin. Fool that I was, weak, miserable fool ! Why should 
1 blame him ? The sin is my own. 

Percy. I wonder that you have concealed your anxiety 
as well as you have. It is after six o'clock now and the 
race must have been decided two hours ago. 

Jack. Yes, and Drayton promised to telegraph me the 

result at once. I do not understand this delay. 

Percy. Nor I. r. „ . 

Bell rings. 

Jack. The door-bell rings. It must be the messenger boy. 

Jack and Percy stand silent, their gaze fixed on centre door. 
Pause, after which enter Polly, c. d., with telegram, 

Polly, {to Jack) A telegram 'spatch, sir. 

Jack, {taking envelope. To Polly) You may go. 

Polly. Yes, sir. 

Exit, c. D. 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 1 9 

Jack. Now, Percy, my fate shall be decided. {Holding 
up e7ivelope>^ That little scrap of paper contains my sen- 
tence — life or death. 

Percy. No, no, you cannot mean that ! 

Jack. I do mean it. {Hesitating) I dare not open it. 

Percy. But you must. 

Jack. Yes, I must know my fate. 

About to open telegram, when Dorothy enters, c. d. r., 
followed by Melinda. Jack hides envelope. 

Dorothy, {laughing) O aunt 1 it's too funny ! Mr. 
Ogden, Aunt Melinda says she thought you were my 
husband, and — 

Melinda. Well, I didn't notice. You didn't exactly p'int 
'em out, so I didn't know which was which. 

Dorothy. It was all my fault for being so careless in 
the introduction. {Glancing at ]xcK. He is agitated.) Why, 
Jack, what is the matter? 

Jack, {nervously) Nothing, nothing. {Forcing a laugh.) 
Ha ! ha ! I was just thinking what a funny joke it was. Eh, 
Percy ? 

Percy. Very, indeed. 

Dorothy. But something has happened. 

Melinda. O dear! O dear! What is it? Pll bet 
Sarah's sick, or Hiram's hurt, or something. Tell me 
quick. I can't bear no suspension ! 

Jack. Really, Aunt Melinda, nothing has happened. 
Dorothy, dear, I am sure dinner must be ready, is it not ? 
Percy and I are nearly famished. 

I>orothy. Very well, I will order it served at once. 
{Crossing. Aside to Jack) You cannot deceive me. 
Something terrible has happened ! 

Jack winces. Exit Dorothy, r. u. e. 

Melinda. Fm sure she'll want me, so I'll follow on. 

Exit, r. u. e. 

Jack, {pauses ; looks after them) Now we shall see. 
( Tears envelope feverishly. Glatices at telegram, gasps.) 
Percy, it is death ! 

Jack takes pistol from hip-pocket, about to place it at his 
temple, when Percy grasps his wrist. Alice Grandon ap- 
pears, c. D., unseen, stands horror-struck. 

tableau 



ACT II 

Scene. — Same as Act L Aunt Melinda discovered by 
table, R., sewing or knitting. Polly dusting about stage. 
Table, R. c, on ivhich is photograph ^/Dorothy in frame, 
book of poems, bell, etc, 

Polly. "Yes, Miss Bu.8:gs. 

Melinda. Boggs, Polly — B-o-double g-s, Boggs. Not 
Buggs ! 

Polly. Wouldn't Swamps do ? 

Melinda. You impudent thing ! How dare you ? 

Polly. Why, that's nothing. " 6zc/^7;z/>i- " sounds more 
high-toned than just Boggs. Don't you think it does ? 

Melinda. No, I don't. 

Polly. I do. But then, mebby you'll change it some 
day, and it may be Mud for all I know. 

Melinda. What ? 

Polly. I said I was all muddled up. 

Melinda. Oh ! 

Polly. As I was saying a little while ago, the city's quite 
a place, aint it ? 

Melinda. Oh ! yes, quite a big place, and ivicked. 

Polly. I s'pose New York's bigger'n Juniperville, where 
you come from ? 

Melinda. Land, yes. But 'taint so comfortable. We 
have room to stir about in our houses, and yards around 
them, and broad fields a-stretchin' out, acres and acres, 
with cows and cattle meanderin' over 'em, and sheep. 

Polly. No ! 

Melinda. {eloquently) Yes! And birds and flowers a- 
blooming and a-singing, all so poetic. There aint so much 
noise and hubbub in the hull town of Juniperville as there 
is in one street crossin' here, but there's more comfort and 
peace and quiet to a square inch than there is in this hull 
city. 

Polly. That's accordin' to your way of thinkin'. As fer 
me, I'd ruther be found dead in the city than live for years 
in that place you call the country. ' It nmst be a reg'lar de- 
serted island. 

Melinda. Oh! you wicked thing! How can you talk 
so? 

Polly. Well, I would ! 
20 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 21 

Melinda. You ought to be ashamed to say such dread- 
ful things. I'll tell your mistress. 

Polly. La, you needn't. She knows it, and I wouldn't 
be s'prised if she agrees with me. 

Melixda. Oh ! scandalous ! I think the city's too 
wicked to live in, let alone die. 

Polly. Do you ? I don't. You know, there aint no 
theaters in Juniperville, I s'pose ? 

Melinda. Theaters ? 

Polly. Yes. 

Melind\. I should hope and pray not. 

Polly, Oh ! The theaters are bully. That's where you 
see — 

Melinda. I don't either ! I never see nothin' of the 
sort. I wouldn't go inside of one of 'em no more than I'd 
jump into our well. 

Polly. You don't know what's fun. Why, that's where 
they have ballet dancing, like this {dances, kicks). 

Melinda. Shocking! Stop it, this minute ! . 

Polly. They kick higher than their heads, {Kicks) 

Melinda. {rising) Stop ! stop ! Oh ! my sensitive nerves ! 
I shall faint ! Dorothy ! Mr. Dunning ! Help ! 

Ejiier Percy a)id Miss Grandon, c. d., sfaiid looking on, 
laughing, till Polly slops dajicing, then applaud. 

Polly, {seeing them) Oh ! I beg your pardon. Really, 
I meant no barm. 

Percy. There is no harm done, I am sure. Miss Gran- 
don and m^^self have enjoyed your performance. Have 
we not ? {To Miss Grandon.) 

Alice. Very much, I am sure. Miss Boggs, though, 
seems to be quite shocked. 

Melinda. Shocked? Outrageously horrified. I sha'n't 
get over it for a month, if I ever do. Oh ! you dreadful 
bold thing {goes at Polly, who dodges) I've as good a 
notion as ever was to box your ears I Go out of my sight 
and stay out, and I'll go and try and compose myself I am 
so shocked, so upset, so disgusted. Oh I 

Flounces out, l. u. e., in great constemiation. 

Polly, {mocking her) Shocked, upset, disgusted, Oh ! 
Well, I can't help it if you be. Some people's too proper 
to say boo. I haven't had so much fun in a month, any- 
way. I hope j'C'7<r aint so shocked ? {To Percy and Alice.) 

Percy. Hardly. 

Alice. Not quite so badly as Miss Boggs seemed to be. 



22 THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 

But to tell the truth, Polly, I do not believe your mistress 
would approve of such actions. 

Polly. No, nor me. But she never does nothin'. She 
might tell Mr. Dunning, that's all, and he'd laugh, ha ! ha ! 
ha! 

Exit, C. D. R. 

Alice. You see ? And he would laugh. I fear that is 
a criterion of the way Jack Dunning is regarded in his own 
home, by his own servants. They take liberties because 
they know he is too thoughtless, too heedless to notice or 
care how things are going. 

Percy. Your opinion is none too flattering. 

Alice. Well, what should I think? His own acts con- 
demn him. Dorothy is breaking her heart and worrying 
her life out for his sake, yet I pity more than I blame him. 

Percy. And so do I. You would pity him still' more, if 
you knew all. 

Alice. I. dare say; surely, he must have had some 
dreadful misfortune, something terrible must have happened 
to drive him to such desperation that he would attempt to 
put an end to his own life. 

Percy. The man was tem.porarily maddened by a stroke 
of ill luck — the result of his own folly — which to him 
meant ruin and disgrace. In the frenzy of the moment he 
saw no escape but cleath. 

Alice. And was it so bad as that ? 

Percy. No. Had he but paused to reflect or listen to 
reason, he might have seen that the blow was less severe 
than he thought. There might have been some escape. 

Alice. But Jack seldom stops to think. 

Percy. That is it. He is rash, impulsive. The passion 
of the moment carries him away. He has lost a large 
amount of money by a foolish act. Money not all his own. 
He sees no way to pay it, and to him absolute ruin and 
disgrace seem the inevitable result. 

Alice. And he has brought this trouble upon himself? 

Percy. Yes, although he did not realize what he was 
doing, I am sure. He has been led astray and by degrees 
has reached this end of misery and despair. He owes it 
all to one man. 

Alice. To one man? 

Percy. Yes, and to his own weakness. 

Alice. And that man, who is he ? 

Percy. A false friend, a wolf in sheep's clothing, a man 
for respectable people to shun. 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 2$ 

Alice. And his name ? 

Percy. Ashley Drayton. 

Alice, (surprised) Surely, not that man ? Why, I have 
heard the name. He passes in the best society. 

Percy. As the world classifies society, yes. 

Alice. I can hardly believe it. And Dorothy, does she 
know of all this trouble ? 

Percy. Nothing positive. She mistrusts, and Jack knows 
it. He feels that he cannot longer hide his disgrace from 
her, and would rather die than face her if she knew all. 

Alice. It would be a heavy blow to her. 

Percy. Yes, and Jack fears that she would turn from 
him. 

Alice. Never ! Dorothy is too true a woman, and loves 
her husband too well ever to forsake him, come what may. 
Her heart might break, but she would cling to him to the 
last. But you must go and find him. Bring him back. 
Beg of him to tell Dorothy all. She will forgive him, and all 
may yet be well. 

Percy. I will go. ( Taking her hand?) And thank God 
for all such true women as she — and you. {Kisses herhand^ 

Alice, {drawing back) Mr. Ogden — sir ! 

Percy. Miss Grandon— Alice ! That kiss would have 
been where it belongs, on your lips, had I but dared place 
it there. 

Alice. Why, Mr. 

Percy. My name is Percy ; call me that. May I place 
another kiss where that one should have been ? {About to 
embrace her.) 
■ Alice, {repelling him) No, you have not done my bidding. 

Percy. You are not displeased ? 

Alice. I ought to be, you are so bold. 

Percy. But you are ?iof, so I will be bolder. 

Alice. No, you are too bold already. I shall not be 
pleased until you do as I request. 

Percy. Then I will go at once. But I may hope ? 

Alice. I shall not attempt to dispel any hope that you 
may have entertained. Only go. 

Percy. Angel ! 

Alice. No, only a woman with a woman's heart. Go, I 
say, and bring Jack Dunning back to his wife, and when 
their clouds have rolled away, and their sunshine has re- 
turned, then — 

Percy. Then? 

Alice. Well, the?i we will see about some sunshine for 
ourselves. 



24 THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 

Percy, {suddenly kissing hei) I begin to see light already. 

Alice. Oh! you dreadful man ! {She boxes his eai^s and 
chases him out c. d. r. Enter Melinda, l. u. e., and Polly, 
R. u. e., in time to witness above) 

Melinda. {raising hajids) Oh ! 

Polly. Did you see tiiat, miss ? 

Melinda. Why, did he kiss her ? 

Polly. Guess he did. 

Melinda. Shocking ! I never would a believed it of 
them two, they seemed so proper. I guess he was all to 
blame, though, 'cause she didn't seem to like it. 

Polly. Oh ! no, she didn't ; of course not. Girls never 
do. 

Melinda. Don't they ? I thought mebby they did, 
sometimes. 

Polly. Oh ! no, never. {Aside) La ! but aint she green ? 

Melinda. {sitting r. c.) Where is your mistress, Polly? 
I haven't seen her in some time. 

Polly. She went in her room and locked the door, right 
after breakfast, and I don't believe she's been out since. 

Melinda. No, she didn't come down to lunch. 

Polly. And Mr. Dunning aint been home, either. He 
went off early dis mornin'. But that's nothin' very new for 
him. 

Melinda. Pm afraid something's up, Dorothy seems so 
downhearted, 

Polly. Well, I s'pose it's the ups and downs of married 
life. Don't never get married, Miss Buggs. 

Melinda, Boogs, Polly. 

Polly. Oh ! yes, Boggs. 

Melinda. That's it, and please remember. As for get- 
ting married, I never shall. 

Polly. No, of course you won't. Anybody 'd know it to 
look at you. 

Melinda, What's that? 

Polly. 'Cause they'd see you're too sensible to throw 
your,self away on a inaii — horrid creatures ! (Aside) That's 
taffy, {Aloud) Mebby master and misses had a quarrel, 

Melinda, Oh ! 1 don't believe it ! 

Polly. I don't know's I do, either. I never knew 'em 
to quarrel yet, but I suppose there's got to be a first time. 
Melinda. Well, then, we'll hope that that time is a long 
way off, {Bell 7'ings.) There's the door-bell, 
Polly, Mebby it's callers. 

Melinda. Pm sure it's nobody to see me, so PU not wait 
for 'em ; and say, Polly — 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 25 

Polly, {turns at c. d.) Yes, miss. 

Melinda. You know you said you'd like to have me 
show you how to mix up them biscuits I was telhn' you 
about ? 

Polly. Yes, 'cause I expect — well, mebby I'll have to 
cook some day, and it comes handy to know such things. 
{Bell rings again?) Bother that bell ! {Exit, c. D. R.) 

Melinda. {not noticing Polly's absence) That's sensible. 
Well, as I was tellin' you, them biscuits are the best goin', and 
they go, too. Why, the last time the sewin' circle met at our 
house I made an awful big batch ; and there aint another 
person in Juniperville can come up to me a makin' 'em, if I 
do say it, as shouldn't. Land, how they did eat 'em ! I was 
worried half to death for fear there wouldn't be enough, 
they went so — just like hot biscuits — and as good as any 
hot cakes you ever eat, and I aint braggin'. Sarah Simp- 
kins said they beat any she ever eat, and she's a jedge ; and 
Deacon Sparrowses' wife, her as was Alviry Jenks, and as 
good a cook as ever greased a tin, and her mother before 
her, she said — {noticing Polly's absence) Land sakes ! the 
gal's gone and Pm talking to empty air. Well, mebby it's 
about the same thing. I know what I say about them bis- 
cuits is the truth, and I aint braggin', either. {Exit, R. u. E.) 

Enter Polly, c. d. r., followed by Ashley Drayton. 

Polly. My master is not at home, sir. 

Drayton. Ah ; do you know how soon he will be in? 

Polly. No, sir; but if you like I will call my missus, 

Drayton. No, thank you, my business is not with her. 
Perhaps Pll wait awhile ; Mr. Dunning may return. 

Polly, Very well. Sit down. 

Drayton. Thank you. {Sits, r. c. ; Polly goes, c. d.) 
I say, girl. 

Polly. {pa?(sing) Yes, sir. 

Drayton. If your master returns, let him know that I 
am here, at once. 

Polly. Who shall I say ? 

Drayton. Drayton — Ashley Drayton. 

Polly. Very well, sir. {Exit, c. d. r.) 

Drayton. So this is Jack Dunning's home ? Not a bad 
place ; rather nice, all around. {Looking at photo in frame, 
on table) A pretty face. His wife, no doubt. No wonder 
he loves her. But pshaw ! what's the use of tying one's self 
up, even for a pretty woman and a cozy home ? I prefer to 
have my freedom and do as I please. {Sits, r. c, by table ; 
looks at picture^ And yet, that's a pretty face. One could 



26 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 



sacrifice a great deal for such a woman, if he loved her. 
Man of the world that I am, I could almost envy Jack Dun- 
ning and wish that my lot had been more like his. Ah ! 
well, it is too late now. I am not the worst fellow that ever 
lived, in spite of all they say of me. True, I gamble, if you 
must call it that, but I give my opponents a chance to out- 
wit me if they can. I lead them on, perhaps, but I do not 
compel them to yield, and they say that " all's fair in love 
and war." ( Takes book from table) Hello ! what have we 
here? Poems of Love. Well, that's sentimental enough for 
you. But then, they've only been married a short time. 
They'll get over it. {Reading) Ah ! here is a marked pas- 
sage ; the book seems to open readily to this page. {Reads 
aloud :) 

" The heart that loves truly, love, never forgets, 
But as truly loves on to the close ; 
As the sunflower turns to her god. as he sets, 
The same look that she turned when he rose." 



Well-a-day, that's a rebuke for me, sure enough. I only 
hope they may be able to prove the truth of that rather 
optimistic assertion. Everything goes in poetry, but in 
real life it's different. 

E)iler Melinda, r. u. e., 7iol j(?<?/;/^ Drayton. 

Drayton. Ah ! what fair damsel is this ? {Risi?ig) Hem ! 
Melinda. {slarlh^g) Oh ! 

Drayton. I beg pardon, madam — or miss. {Aside) It 
must be miss. {Aland) I trust I did not frighten you? 

Melinda. No, sir, not in the least, or not worth men- 
tionin'. Was there anybody you wanted to see ? 

Drayton. Yes, I called to see Mr. Dunning, but I under- 
stand he is not in. 

Melinda. No, he is not. 

And so I await his arrival. 
You may have to wait for some time. 
Why, do you not expect him ? 
La! you can't tell. He's as uncertain as the 



Drayton. 
Melinda. 
Drayton. 
Melinda. 
weather. 
Drayton. 
Melinda. 



Melinda 
{Ex'll, r. u. E.) 



Unsteady ? 

I — really, sir, you must excuse me ; I — 

Enler Percy, c. d. r. 
Here is Mr. Ogden ; I will leave you to him. 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY T] 

Drayton. Well, that's cool. {To Percy) I beg pardon, 
sir; I am waiting to see Mr. Dunning. 

Percy. Very well ; perhaps you will succeed. 

Drayton. You speak doubtfully. 

Percy. I am doubtful. In fact, sir, I wish to find him 
myself. Perhaps you can assist me. 

Drayton. I ? 

Percy. Do you not understand me ? 

Drayton. No, I do not. Why, I am looking for Mr. 
Dunning myself — am waiting to see him. 

Percy. Indeed ? Would to Heaven you never had seen 
him. 

Drayton. Why, sir! What do you mean ? 

Percy, {hotly) I mean this — that I know who you are and 
what you are — I — 

Drayton, {coolly) Well, you have the advantage of me. 
I do not know who you are, but I know what you are 7Lot — 
you are 7iot a gentleman. 

Percy. You dare ? 

Drayton. Yes, for you are not acting like one. To my 
knowledge we have never met before, yet you have insulted 
me at almost the first word. I demand an explanation. 

Percy. You shall have it. 

Enter Dorothy, c. d., unnoticed, and listens. 

Percy. You are Ashley Drayton, the man to whom Jack 
Dunning owes his downfall. 

Drayton. Why, what do you mean? 

Percy. What do I mean ? You know what I. mean. You 
are the man who has led Jack Dunning on to ruin, who— 

Drayton. Stop ! you have said enough. I am not ac- 
countable X.O yojt for any of my misdeeds, and I refuse to be 
the subject of your insults. Why do you take it upon 
yourself to champion Jack Dunning's cause ? Are you his 
guardian ? 

Percy. No, I am his friend, which you are not. 

Drayton. And why do you say that ? 

Percy. Because you have proven to be his worst enemy 
— his evil genius. 

Drayton, {angrily) I said I had enough of this abuse. 
Will you stop it? 

Percy, {nnheeding) Do you not know that Jack Dunning 
lost forty thousand dollars on a horse race ? 

Drayton. No, I did not know that. 

Percy. You — 

Drayton, {waniingljl) Take care 



28 THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLL\ 

Percy. Well, you knew he bet that amount on a certain 
horse, and bhe lost ? 

Drayton. Yes, the horse lost, but — 

Percy. And you led him on to make the venture ; you 
forced him into the folly, knowing his weakness. I tell you, 
man, it was a crime, and if harm comes to him, j^ou are 
responsible. 

Drayton. Harm ? Why, I trust he is not — there must 
be some mistake, I — 

Percy. There is no mistake. The money, as you know, 
was not his own. 

Drayton. No, I did not know that. Whose w^as it ? 

Percy. His wife's. 

Dorothy aHes out and sinks into chair, c, at back. Percy 
and Drayton see her, and are surprised and dismayed. 

Percy. Mrs. Dunning! 

Drayton, {aside) His wife ! 

Dorothy. Yes, I have heard all. You can deceive me 
no longer. I have felt that a storm cloud was hanging over 
me, and now it has burst. 

Percy. Mrs. Dunning, I am very sorry that you have 
heard this.. Only for my thoughtlessness and quick temjDer 
you would not have known. 

Dorothy. It is better so. The blow would only have 
been the worse for the delay. I knew that some terrible 
trouble was before me. and anything is better than suspense. 

Percy. But it may not be so bad as you think. 

Dorothy. It is so bad that my heart is breaking, for 
the one whom I fully trusted, has deceived me. Where is 
my husband ? 

Percy. I do not know. 

Dorothy, {to Drayton) Perhaps you, sir, can tell me 
where he is ? 

Drayton. No, madam, I cannot. I came here expect- 
ing to find him. I came to tell him that — 

Percy. Stop! Your words are each one a stab to her 
poor, bleeding heart. If you have a spark of manhood 
left, go ! 

Drayton. Sir, you may be thankful that there is a lady 
present, or I would not overlook your insolence. I have 
given you no cause for thus misusing me, and did I not 
honor this house and its mistress more than you seem to, I 
would resent it more forcibly. 

Dorothy. Mr. Ogden, pray let it pass. It can do no 
good to say more. 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 29 

Drayton. Madam, I appeal to you. I have something 
to tell you that you should hear, but I refuse to say it 
before that man. Will you dismiss him and let me talk to 
you alone ? 

Percy. No. You insult her by making such a request. 

Drayton. Madam, what is your answer ? 

Dorothy. {Jiesitatingly) I — I — must trust to Mr. Ogden. 
He is my friend, and you are not. 

Drayton. Very well, then I will go. But when, at some 
future time, you look back to this moment, remember that I 
tried to do my duly, but you would not let me speak, and 
what you suffer between now and then, do not lay at my 
door. ( To Percy) You call yourself this woman's friend, 
and I doubt not tiiat you mean to be, yet you are now 
proving yourself otherwise. {To Dorothy) Madam, I am 
a man of the world, but I still have a spark of true man- 
hood left in my bosom, and it is kindled into flame in your 
presence, and in sympathy with your sorrow. I sincerely 
regret that I cannot be of service to you, but this man who 
calls himself your y>/>;/i^ stands between us. I do not chide 
you, for I have nothing else to expect. Some day, however, 
I trust, you will think better of me than you do at present. 
{Going) Good-bye, and may the cloud that is now hanging 
over you, soon disclose its silver lining. This is the time 
that tests the depth of your love for your husband Let it 
find you true to him, whatever comes, for remember — 

" The heart that loves truly can never forget, 
But as truly loves on to the close." 

Bows and exits, c. d. r. 

Dorothy looks after Drayton amazed, the?i, after pause, 
starts lip. 

Dorothy. Those words. Where did he hear them ? 
They are from Jack's favorite poem, 

Percy. I do not understand. 

Dorothy. Nor I. {Sees book on table— takes it. ) They 
are in this book {opejis it, points) see ! 

Percy, {takes book) Yes. {Reads) 

" The heart that loves truly, love, never forgets. 
But as truly loves on to the close ; 
As the sunflower turns to her god, when he sets, 
The same look that she turns when he rose." 

Dorothy. He must have read the book while waiting. 
Percy. Yes, no doubt that explains it. 



30 THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 

Dorothy. And that is Ashley Drayton, the man whom 
you abhor ? 

Percy. Yes. 

Dorothy. I think you wrong him. 

Percy. Mrs. Dunning. 

Dorothy. I do. At any rate, he is not all bad. I am 
sorry now I did not see him alone. I believe he meant to 
be a friend to me and what he wished to say might have 
been worth the hearing. 

Percy. Improbable, what could it have been ? 

Dorothy. I know not, but I believe in him. If he is 
not gone, I shall call him back. 

Percy. I would not. 

Dorothy. But I would. {Rings bell) I believe we have 
wronged the man and it can do no harm to listen to him. 

Percy. I am doubtful. Perhaps I w^as too hasty, but I 
have no confidence in the man ; and after what I heard, I 
could not even be civil to him. I quite lost my temper. I 
am sorry now. 

Dorothy. You meant it for the best. 

Enter Polly, c. d. r. 

Dorothy, {to Polly) That gentleman who just left this 
room, has he gone ? 

Polly. Yes, ma'am. I just closed the door behind him. 

Dorothy. Can you not call him back .? 

Polly. La ! no, missus. He's got clean out of sight 
'fore dis. 

Dorothy. Very well. That is all. 

Polly. Yessum. {Aside) Wonder what it all means. 
Mebby he's de sheriff. Golly, I jest hope not ! {Exit, 

c. D. R.) 

Percy. I trust that I have not displeased you, Mrs. Dun- 
ning ? I did not mean to. 

Dorothy. I know it. You are not to blame. But, after all 
you have said of that man, I feel that he would be a friend 
to me, and that I should have listened to what he had to say. 

Percy. Perhaps it is so. I am sorry I interfered ! Can 
you forgive me ? 

• Dorothy. Forgive you ? You, my true and tried friend ? 
I have nothing to forgive. But, O Mr. Ogden ! how can I 
bear this shame and disgrace ? My husband a gambler — a 
would-be suicide ? I cannot bear it ; it will kill me I {Sinks 
in chair, buries face in hands, weeps) 

Percy. No, no, it will not. You must bear up and look 
on the bright side. 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 3I 

Dorothy, {looking up) Bright ? Alas ! I see nothing but 
clouds and darkness before me. I could bear the loss of 
money, welcome the trial of poverty were Jack what I 
believed him, had he not deceived me. 

Percy. He did not mean to deceive you. It was rash- 
ness — weakness. He was led into his folly step by step. 
Had it not been for that man Drayton — 

Dorothy. No, do not lay all the blame on him. Jack 
Dunning should be man enough to resist temptation. He 
himself is to blame. 

Percy. But he did not foresee the result from the begin- 
ning. True, he was weak, but who is not ? Surely, your 
love for him will enable you to forgive what was not crime, 
but passionate folly. 

Dorothy. Would it not have been a crime to make me 
a suicide's widow? 

Percy. But he was crazed, maddened. You must forget 
it all, forgive him. 

Dorothy. It is hard. 

Percy. Yes, but there are many hard things in life, and 
you can bear it. Remember, if you are true to Jack now 
and stand by him in his hour of trouble, it will teach him a 
lesson and help him to do better in the future. On the 
other hand, if you forsake him, it may prove his ruin. 

Dorothy, {shaking her head sadly) I cannot. 

Percy. Yes, you can. I am sure you can, and will. 
Think, what did you promise Jack when you became his 
wife ? Did you not tell him that you would follow him 
through prosperity and adversity, that you would be true to 
him in life and death ? Remember your marriage vow. 

Pause, after which Dorothy looks at Percy hopefully and 
confidingly. 

Dorothy. That is enough, you have won. I remember 
what I said. It was this — 

Jack appears, suddenly, c. d., unseen by Dorothy and 
Percy, with flushed face, unkempt hair, slightly intoxi- 
cated. He listens. 

Dorothy, {giving Percy her hand) I give you my hand 
and my heart ; come what may, I am yours, and naught 
shall ever separate us but death. We will live for each 
other, and tliough the world should come between us, our 
hearts shall beat as one. I repeat my vow, and I will keep 
it truthfully. God bless you, my friend, for you have opened 
my eyes, and your pleadings have not been in vain. 



32 THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 

Percy, {fenderly) Spoken like your own loving self, and 
I am sure you will never regret this step. 

Jack comes furiously down c. and encoujiters Percy and 
Dorothy, who are terrified at his appear^ance. He is livid 
with rage. 

Jack, {to Percy) Percy Ogden, leave this house before 
I strike you dead at my feet. 

Percy. Jack — 

Jack. Go ! I say. You are a traitor, a coward, and if 
you remain another moment in my presence, I will kill 
you ! 

Dorothy. O Jack ! Jack ! Be calm ! You do not 
understand. 

Jack. Be still. With jw^ I will deal later. 

Dorothy, {endeavoring to prevent Jack getting to Percy) 
Jack, I implore you, listen ! 

Jack, {pushing her roughly aside) Stand back! {To 
Percy) Go! 

Percy. Why, Jack, what do you mean ? — What have I 
done ? 

Jack. Done ? Hypocrite ! Did I not hear you this very 
moment speaking in lover's tones to my wife ? Did I not 
hear her vow to leave me and be true to you .? 

Percy. A'O, you did not. 

Jack. Dare you deny it, after what I saw and heard with 
my own eyes and ears ? I tell you, leave my house ! 

Percy. A^o, Jack Dunning, not until you let me explain. 
You have been misled. Listen to me. 

Jack. I will not. There can be no explanations to dis- 
pute the evidence of my own senses. I believe only what 
I saw and heard. I say you are a traitor. You have used 
the cloak of friendship to destroy my home, to win the af- 
fections of my wife, to— 

Percy. Hold ! 1 will stand much from you, for I do not 
believe you are accountable for your words, but you have 
gone too far. What you have said is false. 

Jack. You dare to tell me I — 

Percy. \Qs,yo7i lie / 

Jack raises his arm to strike Percy, Dorothy rushes be- 
tween them, with uplifted haitd aiid pleading face. Jack 
pauses with ainn raised, Percy calm and defiant. 

Jack, l. c, Dorothy, c, Percy, r. c. Tableau. 
curtain 



ACT III 

Scene. — Same as before. Polly discovered seated on floor, 
R. c, her head on her arms, in chair, sobbing and crying. 

Polly. Boo-hoo. It's jes' awful, it is, and I can't stan' it 
no how. I reckon it'll kill this po' chile. I'se got to leave 
my poor Missus Dunnin' and be lef ' out in the street for to 
beg or starve and not to see her no mo'. Oh ! it'll kill me, 
sure. Boo-hoo! {Crying.) (is;z/^r, Melinda, c. d. R.) 

Melixda. Why, Polly, what under the sun's the matter? 
What be you settin' down there for, and crying like all pos- 
sessed? 

Polly. Oh ! nothin'. 

Melinda. There is, too. Tell me at once. 

Polly. Oh ! I can't ! I can't ! I'se goin' ter die, I is, and 
mebby the dogs'U eat me up, an' nobody won't care. 

Melinda. Child alive, what are you talking about? 
Get up this minute and tell me what you mean. Are you 
sick ? Have you broke somethin', or what does ail you ? 

Polly. Yessum. 

Melinda. Well, which ? 

Polly, {idsing) I'se sick — homesick, and my heart's clean 
done got broke all to smash. I jes' wish I had tears enough 
to drown myself in, and I'd shed 'em and shed 'em, and never 
try to swim a bit, but jes' sink and let 'em cover me up till 
I was all drowned dead ! 

Melinda. How wicked you talk. Now I want you to 
stop such goin' on and jest tell me what ails you. Has 
your mistress been a whippin' you ? 

Polly. No, it's a heap lot worse'n that. 

Melinda, Then Mr. Dunning's been scolding you hard, 
and I dare say you deserved it, too. You don't get scolded 
half enough, I'll warrant. 

Polly. Lor, miss, it's worse than any o' them. Don't 
you know ? 

Melinda. Know what ? 

Polly. Why, the awful things what's a-happened right 
in this very house. 

Melinda. Goodness, no ! What is it ? 

Polly. Well, we's got to move. Mr. Jack's lost all his 
money and gone off for to stay, and my poor missus don't 
know what to do. 

3 33 



34 THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 

Melinda. How you talk. La, you must 'a' been drcamin'. 

Polly. I wish I had, but I aint. Mis' Dunnin', she 
called me in her room dis mornin', and told me all about it. 
Sez she, " Polly, we've got for to part." Den she tole me as 
how Mr. Jack had los' his money and gone off, she didn't 
know where, only she never expected to see him no more. 
And she's got to leave this house and everything, and be 
poor and work for a livin'. And me ! O dear! nobody 
knows what eber'll 'come o' me. (Cries.) 

Melinda. My sakes, I never heard anything so dreadful 
in all my life ! I'm sure there must be some mistake. I 
must go and see Dorothy at once and find out what's the 
matter. I never was so shocked in all my born days. I 
don't see w^hat it means. 

Be/l iHjigs. 

Polly. There's that old bell what's always a ringin' when 
you don't want it to. I wish it was busted or somethin'. 

Melinda. Never mind, Polly ; go to the door. 

Polly, "^es ; and you stay here, so if it's visitors you 
can tell 'em missus isn't in. 

Melinda. Why, where's she gone ? 

Polly. Nowhere ; only she's in her room and don't 
want to see nobody. 

Melinda. But she's in. 

Polly. Not if it's anybody she don't want to see. You 
jes' tell 'em she isn't. 

Melinda. Land, you don't suppose Pd lie? 

Polly. 'Taint lyin' ; that's the fashion. 

Exit Polly, c. d. r. 

Melinda. Something's happened jest as like as not, 
'cause Dorothy's been actin' kind of queer, and I don't 
believe she'n her man gits along the best ever was. Dear 
me, I hope 'taint so bad's Polly says. I presume she's 
stretchin' it. 

Enter Polly a7id Alice, c. d. r. 

Alice. Good afternoon. Miss Boggs. 

Melinda. Good afternoon. Miss Grandon. I suppose 
you called to see Mrs. Dunning? 

Alice. Yes. 

Melinda. Well, if it was anybody but 3^ou, Pd say she 
probably couldn't see you, but I don't doubt but what 
she'll be glad to see you any time. Polly, go and tell your 
mistress that Miss Grandon is here, and ask her whether 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 35 

she will come down, or would prefer to see her in her 
room. 

Polly. Yessum. 

Exit, R. I E. 

Alice. How does Dorothy bear up ? I mean, is she 
quite well ? 

Melinda. No, I am afraid not. She hasn't been down- 
stairs to-day, and — and — O dear ! do you know what's 
happened ? 

Alice. Alas, yes, I know it all. 

Melinda. Then what is it? I feel terribly wrought up 
over it, but I don't know exactly what 'tis. 

Alice. Why, has not Mrs. Dunning told you ? 

Melinda. Not a word. All I know is what Polly has 
rattled off, and it's dreadful if it's true. 

Alice. It is dreadful, and no doubt you will learn all 
soon enough. But I will not tell you ; it is not my place to 
do so. 

Melinda. No, mebby not, but I must know the worst at 
once ; I never could bear suspension, and the hull truth, be 
it "ever so bad, don't hurt no more than a few hints and 
sonietiiin' ahead, only you don't know what. 

Alice. Very true. I trust that we shall find .the gloom 
that is over us only a transient shadow, and that the sun- 
light of peace and joy will soon burst through the clouds 
again. 

Melinda. Yes, we will hope for the best. But Fll go 
now, for I don't doubt you would rather see Dorothy alone. 
Only tell her that whatever has come or may come, be^ it 
good or bad, to remember that she couldn't have a more 
sympathizin' and lovin' friend than her Aunt Melinda Jane 
Boggs. 

Exit, L. u. E. 

Alice, {seated l. c.) Dear Miss Boggs, I am sure no one who 
is acquainted with you could doubt that a kind and sympa- 
thizing heart beats in your honest bosom. The truest love, 
like the sweetest flower, often springs from the most uncul- 
tivated soil, and lives amid surroundings commonplace in 
comparison with its own rare beauty. Poor Dorothy, how my 
heart aches for her in this time of trouble. All looks dark 
ahead, indeed, yet I trust this is the hour before dawn and 
the sunlight of a brighter day will soon appear. How lit- 
tle did she think when she gave her life into Jack Dunning's 
keeping that it would come to this. 



i 



36 THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 

Enter Dorothy, pale and sad, r. i e. 

Alice, {going to hei% taking her hands and kissing her^ 
O Dorothy! I— 

Dorothy. Alice, Alice ! {Lays head on her shoulder 
and weeps)} 

Alice. Cry away, dear, it will do you good. 

Dorothy. Alice, what shall 1 do ? What shall I do ? 

Alice. Be brave. Meet trouble with the courage of the 
true woman and faithful wife that you are. 

Dorothy, But have you heard — do j^ou know the 
worst ? 

Alice. Yes, Mr. Ogden has confided in me fully and 
told me all. 1 came at once to you. _, 

Dorothy. And Mr. Ogden, how does he bear it? •! 

Alice. Bravely. Like a true man, yet, with a feeling of 
remorse because he was so hasty and did not let Mr. Dray- 
ton speak and tell you what he wished. JL, 

Dorothy. He must not feel that way. He meant it fo^l 
the best and I do not blame him in the least. Perhaps it is 
not too late yet, Mr. Drayton may be able to help us. 

Alice. So Mr. Ogden thought, and went to seek him, 
resolved to apologize and bring him to you, but he is gone. 

Dorothy. Gone? 

Alice. ' Yes ; Percy could not find him. He sought him 
at the club, then at his hotel ; wherever there was a hope o^ 
finding him, but in vain. Finally he learned that he had 
left the city and gone, no one knows where. 

Dorothy. Then I am indeed hopeless. O Alice ! 
when I think of that dreadful scene last night I wonder 
that it did not kill me ! Jack was like a madman. How 
could he think me so base, so untrue? I could have for- 
given him all. I had ; but this. Oh ! this is too much ! 

Alice. I can hardly hold the man accountable for his 
actions. He was crazed by his misfortune, beside himself 
with passion. 

Dorothy. Yes, for he would listen to no word of 
explanation. Mr. Ogden tried to explain, I implored him 
on my knees to listen, but he would not. Threatening to 
kill us both if we spoke another word, he. heaped curses 
upon our heads, and then crying, " Farewell ; may I never 
look upon your faces again, I leave you to your guilty love !" 
he vanished. 

Alice. Poor, deluded man. He will yet find out his 
mistake and come back to you. It is all a terrible mistake, 
but I feel sure that the wrong will yet be righted. 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 2)7 

Dorothy. No, I fear not. Jack is so rash, so complete 
a slave to his passion, that I fear he will do something des- 
perate. 

Alice. No, for he is a man of his word, and he promised 
Percy faithfully that he would do nothing rash. In his calmer 
moments he will realize that he has been misled, and will 
come home a penitent and humbled man. 

Dorothy. Even so, the happiness of our lives is ruined. 
Our love can never be what it was before. 

Alice. Dorothy, those words are not from your heart. 
You will forgive and forget all, like a true woman. But 
come, dear, you are tired and ill. Go to your room and 
rest. 

Dorothy. Rest ? I have tried, but in vain. I cannot 
sleep, I cannot rest — only think, think, ihink. Oh ! that I 
could lie down and die, for that is the only way I can find 
peace. 

Alice. No, don't give up hope in'that way. Remember, 
you have friends to whom your sorrow is as their own. 
Mr. Ogden will do all in his power to find Jack and make 
him listen to an explanation. \ 

Dorothy. After last night ? After the shame and abuse 
which he suffered from the one whose cause he was plead- 
ing ? 

Alice. Yes, after all. Mr. Ogden is a noble man. 

Dorothy. Yes, and you love him. 

Alice. Dorothy ! 

Dorothy. Yes, 3^ou do. I can read it in your eyes. 
The blushes that come and go when you are in his pres- 
ence, or when you speak of him, tell the tale to one who 
knows you as w^ell as I do. Have I not read your secret? 

Alice. Y — yes. 

Dorothy. I knew it. O Alice ! may your love escape 
the fiery test that mine is passing through. May your mar- 
ried life — 

Alice, {astonished) Married life? Oh! he hasn't pro- 
posed yet ! 

Dorothy. But he will. He loves you. 

Alice, {hlushingly and shyly) Do you think so ? 

Dorothy. I know that, too. A man's love is more 
easily revealed than a woman's. He will ask you to be 
his, and when he does you will say — 

Alice. Yes. 

Dorothy. Yes. What a little word — y-e-s. And yet, 
how much it means. It is the key to one's future happi- 
ness or despair. At first it may seem to open the gateway 



38 THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 

into a Paradise of endless bliss, and for a time all is fair. 
Then there is a change. The winter comes, the frost that 
chills and the blast that kills. But I must not cast a gloom 
over your life, just because the sunlight has gone out of 
mine. Come with me to my room and help me plan for 
the future. 

Alice. What will you do ? 

Dorothy. I do not know. I must do something, surely. 
I must leave this house. I must work. 

Alice. At what ? 

Dorothy. That is what I must plan. I have a little 
money and a few jewels, but the money would soon be 
gone if I stayed here, and my jewels — I would rather starve 
than part with them. They were all presents from Jack. 

Alice, {aside) The old love lingers still. 

Dorothy. Come. 

Exit, R. u. E., arm m arm, as Melinda enters, l. u. e. 

Melinda. There they go, a woman who is married and 
another who would just as soon be. Well, I'm thankful 
I've got some sense. I never married a man yet, and I 
don't think I ever shall. The trouble with men is, they 
want their own way, and sometimes the women do, too, 
and they can't both have it, and then there's trouble. {Sits 
R. c, fuiits or sews)) Now, there's Dorothy, she's throwed 
herself away on a man what thought more of her money 
than he did of her ; at any rate, it looks that way. He's up 
and done something now, and got them all into trouble. 
Well, it's just like a man, they're so selfish. When Doro- 
thy's father died and left her some money, and her ma sent 
her off alone to boardin' school, I said there wouldn't be no 
good come of it, and there aint. Then her ma died, and we 
didn't hear much more of her till we read in the paper that 
she had up and married some man. Now it's come to this, 
just as you might have knowed it would. Well, Dorothy 
sha'n't want for a home. I'll take her back to the farm with 
me. Hiram and Sarah'll be glad enough to see her, and 
mebbe we can help her forget her troubles. And if Polly 
Flinders wants to go too, she can. Poor thing, she aint so 
bad after all, and she's so devoted to her mistress that 
'twould break her heart to part with her. She'd be real 
handy at the farm, so I guess she can go, too. Mebby it's 
my duty to help her get good. There's plenty of room 
for improvement, goodness knows. I'll tone her down if I 
get her to Juniperville. She won't talk theatre and high 
kickin', I can tell her that, from the start. And then, too, I 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 39 

think Dorothy would feel more contented to have Polly 
with her. Poor Dorothy, it's sad enough, but it aint no 
worse than you might expect. It's all from trustin' a man. 
O dear ! what narrow escapes some of us do have ! 

Enter Polly, c. d. r., steals up to Melinda, touches her 07t 
shoulder. 

Melinda. {starting) Oh ! how you scart me ! 

Polly. Did I ? I didn't mean to. 

Melinda. No, of course not, some folks never mean 
nothin'. 

Polly. But honest and true, hope to die, I didn't. 

Melinda. Don't say " hope to die," it's wicked. You 
don't hope no sech thing. 

Polly. I might just as well. There aint nothin' lef for 
me to live for. Deedy dar aint. 

Melinda. Oli ! yes, there is. How would you like to 
go home with me, to Cowslip farm ? 

Polly. What, me ? Dis ar chile ? 

Mell^da. Yes.j/^/^, Polly Flinders. 

Polly. Golly, d'know. Dat ar' Slip-up farm's in de 
country, aint it ? 

Mellnda. Certainly. It couldn't very well be nowhere's 
else. Land, you don't know beans ! How could a farm be 
in the city ? 

Polly. Couldn't it ? 

Melinda. You silly thing, of course it couldn't. If you 
put a farm in the city there wouldn't be no city, and if you 
put the city on the farm there wouldn't be no farm. Have 
you got sense enough to see through that.^ 

Polly. I 'spect so. But I guess I won't go. 

Melinda. Won't go, why ? You ought to be glad of 
the chance. 

Polly. I'd be lonesome. 

Melinda. A few minutes ago you wanted to die. 
S'pose you think you wouldn't be lonesome then, cause 
you'd go where there's plenty more as wicked as you be. 
Well, you needn't go with me, if you don't want to. 

Polly. Why, be you goin' to dat ar wicked place ? 

Melinda. What wicked place ? 

Polly. Whar dey aint lonesome. 

Melinda. You awful heathen, I hope not. I meant to 
the farm. Probably Mis' Dunnin' 'II go and I thought 
mebby you'd like to go with her. 

Polly. Oh ! if she goes, yes, I would, I would ! Deedy, 
I'd go anywhere with her. Can I go, can I ? 



40 THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 

Melinda. Yes, yes. If Dorothy goes and she will let 
you, you can go too. But you'll have to make yourself 
useful. 

I'oLLY. I'll work, I'll do anything, jes' so I can stay by 
missus. 

Melinda. Seems to me, you don't care much about the 
rest of us. 

Polly. Oh ! yes, deedy I do. Miss Boggs, only you see 
I — I — well, I can't help it ! 

Melinda. Yes, I see. That's all right. It's your love 
for your mistress that makes me say you can go. Mind, 
though, you don't speak of it yet, for nothing is decided for 
sure. That's only j>iy plan, and mebby it won't work. But 
if it's in my power to fix it, Polly, you shall not be parted 
from your mistress. 

Polly, {grabbing Melinda's hand and kissing it) Oh 1 
you're so good ! 

Exit, CD. R., quickly. 

Melinda. Poor child, she is not ungrateful after all. 
{Wipi?ig her eyes) I do believe I'm almost cryin', and that 
won't do. I must go and write a letter to Hiraiii and tell 
him what's happened and ask his advice. I'm sure he and 
Sarah'll both say to bring Dorothy home with me, for they 
have often wished to see her, and would be glad to give her 
a home. And as for Polly, I know they won't object to her. 
She'll earn her way. Besides, I believe I'm gittin' attached 
to the little heathen. Sakes alive, who'd a thought it ! 

Exii, L. u. e. 
Enter Dorothy and Alice, r. u. e. 

Dorothy. I am sorry you cannot stay longer, Alice, it 
is such a comfort to have you with me. But you will come 
again soon ? 

Alice. ■ Yes, soon and often. And even when I am not 
by your side, you know that my thoughts and my sympathies 
are with you. 

Dorothy. Yes, I am sure of it. 

Alice. I must go now, but you will see me again to- 
morrow. Be brave and hope for the best. Good-bye. 
( They embrace^ 

Dorothy. Good-bye. 
Exit Alice, c. d. r. Dorothy sta?ids looking after her — 
pause. 

Dorothy. Dear, light-hearted girl. How happy she is 
in the dawning of love's young dream. Not long ago I 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 4I 

was the same as she, and now, now all is gloom and sad- 
ness. Oh ! how could my husband deceive me so ? How 
could he think me the basest of all God's creatures, a faith- 
less wife ? I cannot forgive him that, it is too cruel ; and 
yet, yet, I love him. {Sits left of table, R. c.) But I shall 
never see him again. My dream of happiness is over and 
this is the rude awakening, the sad reality. {Pause, then sees 
book, " Poems of Love',' on table ; takes it up tenderly) 
This book, the one Jack gave me soon after I promised 
to be his. It seems now like a tie between us, a memory 
of the past, pleading for the future. {Opens book.) See, 
here is the passage he marked for me. How often I have 
heard him repeat the words, 

"The heart that loves truly, love, never forgets. 
But as truly loves on to the close." 

It is my heart of which it speaks, for breaking though it 
is, it loves and loves truly and cannot forget. O Jack! 
Jack! {Buries face i/i hands o?i table.) Tableau. 

CURTAIN 



ACT IV 

Six months after Act III. Hotel Tremoiit, Boston. Apart- 
ments occupied by Jack Dunning, 7iicely funiished. Table 
L. c, on which is decanter of wine and glass, pack of cards, 
etc. Jack discovered by table, reading newspaper. Pause. 

Jack. {crumpli?ig paper impatiently) Pshaw! I can't read ! 
No matter what is printed on the page before me, I see the 
same old story between the Hnes. One name, one face, 
rise ever before me, haunting me wherever I go, whatever I 
do. Her name and her face. The only woman I love, and 
whom I have been striving to forget for six long months. 
{Rises and walks to and fro.) Love ? Yes, I love her still, 
strive as I may to crush that emotion. I cannot forget, I 
cannot cease to love. O Dorothy ! my wife, if you knew 
what I have suffered ! Yet, she is not worthy even a single 
thought, much less a pang of sorrow or regret. She 
deceived me ; she turned from me for a man who pre- 
tended to be my friend. I wonder that I did not kill them 
both. It was only by rushing from their presence as I did 
that I escaped the commission of a crime. They did not 
deserve to be spared, but I am thankful now that their 
blood is not upon my soul. Six months, a half a year, has 
passed since then, and it seems an age. How have I spent 
the time ? In a round of dissipation and reckless living. 
How much longer it can last I do not know. {Goes to 
table, takes up a pack of cards^ These have been my only 
weapon against starvation. They have served me w^ell, yet 
I wish I had starved before I ever touched them. {Dashing 
cards to floor}) I hate them. I curse them as I do the man 
and woman who have been my ruin. Oh ! that I could find 
some relief from this torture — something to drown the 
thoughts that fight like demons in my brain ! Drink ; I 
must drink. {Pours wine, lifts glass to lips, about to drink, 
when enter Hall Boy, c. d.) 

Boy. Is this Mr. Dunning? 

Jack, {sets glass down) Yes, that's my name. What's 
wanted ? 

Boy. There's a gentleman in the office, sir, who would 
like to see you. 

Jack. Did he not send up a card, or tell his name ? 
42 



I 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOCLY 43 

Boy. No, sir. 

Jack. Tell him I'm not in. 

Boy. But he said it was very important, sir. 

Jack. No matter. Tell him I am not in. Do you under- 
stand ? 

Boy. Yes, sir. {Exit, c. d.) 

Jack. Who can it be ? Some one from whom I have 
won a neat sum, no doubt. Some father to condemn me 
for ruining his son. It's the same old story, the natural 
outcome of a life like mine. {Pours wine and drinks.) 

Enter Boy, c. d. 

Jack. Well, what now ? 

Boy. The gentleman says it is very important, sir, and 
he must see you. 

Jack. Very well ; show him up. 

Boy. Yes, sir. {Exit, c. d.) 

Jack. I may as well see him, whatever comes of it. . I 
have no fear. A few curses, more or less ; what's the dif- 
ference .? I cannot expect blessings, so I will make the 
best of what comes. 

Enter Ashley Drayton, c. d., staiids silent. 

Jack. I have ceased to expect anything good, and am 
prepared for the worst. ( Turns, sees Drayton. Tableau?) 
Ashley Drayton ! 

Drayton. Yes, Ashley Drayton. Your eyes do not de- 
ceive you. 

Jack. Why — why — how came you here ? You of all 
men. 

Drayton. I came in the usual way. I of all men — the 
one you least expected to see. 

Jack. Yes, you — the man whose acquaintance has been 
a curse to me ; the man to whom I owe the first downward 
step in the path of ruin. Do you not fear that I shall give 
you your just deserts ? 

Drayton. No, I do not fear, for after I have said what I 
have to say, my just deserts are what I crave, and you can- 
not deal them out to me a bit too soon. Only let me speak. 

Jack. Go on. Speak, 

Drayton. First, let me ask you a question. You remem- 
ber the time, about six months ago, when you Wfet a large 
sum of money on a horse ? 

Jack. At your bidding. 

Drayton. Yes, if you will. Well, you gave me the 



44 THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 

money to bet, as you were obliged to go home. Do you re- 
member ? 

Jack. Remember? Do you think I can ever forget? 

Drayton. I was sure the horse would win, and I 
urged you to bet because I, having no money of my 
own, was anxious to witness another's luck. I knew your 
gain would be mine, for I was unscrupulous and knew that 
you were in my power. I admit my perfidy, I do not seek 
to cover up my sin. Well, I started for the race track, to 
bet your money. I was too late, the race was over when I 
reached the spot. 

Jack. Whatf 

Drayton. Listen. I missed the train, but thought to 
get there in time, I failed. Your money — 

Jack. For God's sake, man, what are you saying. My 
money — 

Drayton. Was saved. My telegram explained. Did 
you not receive it ? 

Jack. Why, yes. 

Drayton. And you read it ? 

Jack. Yes. 

Drayton. What did it say ? 

Jack. Why — it — it — said, " The race is lost." 

Drayton. An'd was that all f 

Jack. All ? What do you mean ? 

Drayton. I mean this. The telegram I sent you, read, 
" The race is lost, but your money is safe." 

Jack. Then I did not read it all. I glanced at it, read the 
first four words, and in the frenzy of the moment crumpled 
the paper in my hand. 

Drayton. Yes, and from that thoughtless act sprung all 
the misery which you and yours have suffered since then. 

Jack. But why have you been silent so long? Why 
have you not explained ? 

Drayton. I will tell you. I was ignorant of your sus- 
pense and misery, supposing that my telegram explained 
the matter to you. I went to your house the next day to 
return the money. You were gone, but through a man who 
was there, I learned that they thought your money lost. I 
was puzzled, as I could not understand how the mistake 
occurred. I would have explained had not that man, pre- 
sumably in your behalf, misused me. 

Jack. A'nd that man — who was he ? 
Drayton. A Mr. Ogden. 

Jack. Curse him ! 

Drayton. No, I am sure he meant to be your friend. 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 45 

Jack. Friend? Do not pollute the word. He is a scoun- 
drel. 

Drayton. Wait until I tell the whole of my story. As 
I said, that man misused me, but since then I have learned 
why, and I cannot blame him so much, after all. As we 
were talking, your wife entered, unseen by us, and over- 
heard our words. She, too, thought your money lost. I 
offered to speak the truth to her alone, for I would not con- 
fess before that man, but he would not go, she would not 
send him away, so I left them, deep in doubt and despair 
as they were, resolved to tell no one but you. 

Jack. Go on. 

Drayton. Well, I left the house and sought you. You 
were not to be found. In an evil moment the tempter whis- 
pered to me, " Keep the money for your own ; they think it 
lost and will never know." I almost yielded, so near to it 
that for several days, I made no further effort to find you. 
But there was still a spark of honesty smouldering in my 
corrupt nature, and one thing finally gave it life and helped 
me to resist that great temptation. 

Jack. And thai: ? 

Drayton. Was the thought of your wife. I was touched 
by her sweet, sad face, and the memory of her misery helped 
even vie to do right for once. 

Jack. So you went to her ? 

Drayton. Yes, but she was gone, I knew not where. 
Then I sought Mr. Ogden, but the search was fruitless. No 
one could assist me to find them, or you. Only after six 
long months. Jack Dunning, have I succeeded in finding 
you. I would not give up, I have searched until finally I 
have met with success. {Taking pocket-book from pocket) 
And now, I can return to you that which is jw/rj-, and which 
has cost me many a struggle. Take it. {Hajids pocket-book 
to Jack.) 

Jack. Thank you, Drayton. You are my best friend 
after all. 

Drayton. No, for I have only done my duty and con- 
fessed a fault. {Extending hand.) Can you take my hand 
and forgive me ? 

Jack. With all my heart. 

Drayton. Thank you. You will never regret it, for I 
have firmly resolved to do better hereafter and be a 7nan. 

Jack. And I believe you will succeed. Now, Drayton, 
I have something to tell j'<?^/. Evidently you do not know 
why I am separated from my wife, why I have no home t 

Drayton. The money ? 



46 THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 

Jack. As I tliouj^ht. No, that is but a small part of my 
trouble. Even the recovery of that does not conciliate 
matters. 

Drayton. But your wife will forgive you. You will 
return to her ? 

Jack. Never. 

Drayton. Why, Jack, what do you mean ? 

Jack. You say my wife will forgive me. Well, then, I 
will not, cannot forgive her. 

Drayton, yi^/c forgive her? Why, for what? 

Jack. Treachery, faithlessness. Shall I tell you ? 

Drayton, If you will ; I will not betray your confidence. 

Jack. Then you shall hear a tale of deceitfulness and 
breach of friendship as base as ever yet was told. 

Enter Hall Boy, c. d. r. 

Boy. Mr. Dunning, sir. 
Jac:k. Well, well, what is it ? 
Boy. Is Mr. Drayton here ? 
Drayton. That is my name. 

Boy. There's a gentle-man inciuircd for you and wishes 
to see you in the office at once. 

Drayton. Very well. {Go/no) I will return soon, Jack. 
Jack. I can wait. 

Exit Boy, c. d. \<., followed by Drayton. 

Jack. Drayton docs not know. He thinks my wife a 
pure, sweet woman — a very angel. Perhaixs I ought not to 
tell him the truth. Sometimes I can hardly believe that it 
is the truth. Yet, I saw, I heard. There can be Jio mistake. 
I will tell him, for he has proved himself a better friend to 
me than those who professed so much. I zvil/ trust in him. 

Enter Drayton, c. d. r., hurriedly. 

Drayton. Jack, Jack, there is some one here whom you 
must see — some one whom you know. They just arrived 
and saw my name on the register. 

Jack. Who is it? 

Drayton. Mr. and Mrs. Ogden. 

Jack. Here? 

Drayton. Yes, they are coming to this room. I told 
the boy to show them in. 

Jack. No, no. you know not what you do. Don't let 
them come — not now ! 

Drayton. Why, Jack, what is the matter ? You seem 
excited. 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 47 

Jack. Excitctl ? mad ! Those hvo /icrc ? Tliat man and 
my — O Drayton! did you see her f 

Drayton, No, but he said she was in tlie ladies' parlor. 
He will bring her up. 

Jack. You do not know what you are doing. Surely, 
they do not know / am here ? 

Drayton. No, I plaimed it"as a surprise. I told them 
a friend of mine was here, but did not say who. It will be 
a delii^htful surprise. 

Jack. Delighlful ! Drayton, it may mean murder. I 
am not fit to meet them. Do not let them come. 

Drayton. Murder? You are joking. 

Jack. No, I mean it. Wait ! Keep them back ! 

Steps heard outside. 

Drayton. It is too late, they are here. 
Jack. Then it is fate. Heaven help me! 

Pause, then enter Hall Boy c. d. r. 

Boy. Mr. and Mrs. Percy Ogden. 

Jack stands breathless, Drayton surprised. Enter Vkrcy, 
c. xy., followed, after a pause, by Alice, lliey stand silent, 
amazed, c. ; Jack, thunder-struck, about to sprinsr fonvard. 
Tableau. Jack, r., Percy, r. c, Alice, c. Boy, l. c, 
Drayton, l. 

curtain 



ACT V 



n 



Scene. — Plainly furnished sitting-room, Coivslip Farm 
Juniperville, Vt. Decerftber. 'fable, R. ; old-fashioned 
chairs, etc. Sarah Boggs discovered seated, r. c, mend- 
ing pair of pants ; Hiram Boggs, l. c, ^>^ roc ki?ig- chair, 
dozing, head nodding. 

Sarah, {gently) Hiram, {Forcibly) Hiram ! {Sharply) 
Hiram Boggs ! 
I Hiram. Eh ? 

Sarah. Wake up. Land, I should think you'd be 
ashamed o' yourself! I can stand anything but a man what 
goes to sleep in the daytime. It looks too shiftless. 

Hiram. Now, Sarah, thet's jest like you. A man can't 
help being sleepy, can he, be it mornin', night, or between 
meals ? Besides, I aint been asleep. 

Sarah. The idea. You have, too, 'cause I've been 
watchin' you. Your head's been bobbin' like a hoptoad 
after flies. Say, do you know what day of the week 'tis, 
and what month ? 

Hiram. Why — er — yes. Aint it Tuesday, the fourteenth 
of December? 

Sarah. You know more'n I thought you did. Yes, 'tis. 
Well, what then ? 

Hiram. 'Most Christmas. 

Sarah. Owistmas f I want to know if you've forgot 
who's comin' to-day ? There, we're goin' to have com- 
pany, and you set there as if there wa'n't no sech thing as 
company on earth. 

Hiram. Oh ! yes, them city folks, Dorothy's company, 
what's comin' here on their weddin' trip. 

Sarah. And aint it our company, too ? Who owns this 
farm, I'd like to know? 

Hiram. We do. 

Sarah. Yes, and we've got to entertain 'em, aint we ? 

Hiram. Well, I reckon we've got to help. 

Sarah. Then don't set there like a stick. It's over an 
hour sence William Henry went to the village with the 
team to meet 'em, and they may be here any minute. 

Hiram. Guess I'll be gettin' ready for 'em. 

Sarah. Yes, I guess yo\x'(S. better. And I'll go'n see 
about gettin' somethin' for 'em to eat. They'll be as hungry 
48 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 49 

as bears when they git here. Jest think, a new married 
couple ; from the city, too. Now, for goodness sake, Hiram, 
put on your best manners along with your best clothes, and 
act as if we was jest as good as anybody. 

Hiram. Wall, (2^■;^/ we ? 

Sarah. Of course we be, only you know we aint jest up 
to city ways and whims, and things may look kinder queer 
to 'em. 

Hiram. Hm ! All I've got to say is,if they think any the 
less o' me because I'm a country farmer and aint spruce 
enough for 'em, is that they aint the kind of folks I'll treat 
long as if I liked 'em. 'Taint my way. 

Sarah. Don't you worry, Hiram. Aint they our Doro- 
thy's friends, and didn't she come back to us, after all them 
years, jest the same as she went away ? 

Hiram. Bless her dear heart, of course she did. 

Sarah. And do you suppose she'd have any friends come 
here what would snub her Uncle Hiram and Aunt Sarah? 

Hiram. No, I don't. Not by a jug-full. 

Sarah. That's what I say. Jest think, it's over six 
months now since Melinda Jane come back from the city 
and brought our poor little Dorothy, with her heart a 
breakin', and her young life ruined by a heartless man. Poor 
dear, she's jest worry in' her life out, for, although she never 
mentions her husband's name, I am sure she loves him jest 
as much as ever. 

Hiram. Yes, and she always will. There's nothin'll ever 
bring the roses back to her cheeks but his kisses, nothin'll 
bring the smiles back to her lips but his kind words. 

Sarah. Hiram Boggs, how sentimental you're gettin'. 
You must 'a' been readin' poetry. But, goodness, we're 
talkin' too much. You must get ready. I've had my dress 
changed an hour. {Holding- up pa?i/s) There, I've mended 
that hole in your best pants. Now, you go and put 'em on. 
{Hands pants to him) You've got to look decent when you 
meet our company. Hurry, up, too. Don't go to sleep. 

Hiram. Now, Sary, don't keep givin' me sech digs. I 
aint lazy. I'll show you how I caji hurry when I try. 
{Rushes out, l. u. e.) 

Sarah. {s?irprised) Gracious, that's the quickest move 
that man's made sence the brindle cow choked to death! 
Well, I must see about startin' the supper. I wonder where 
Polly Flinders is ? Land, that gal's a piece ! When she first 
come, I thought I never could stand it, she carried on so 
and raised such a rumpus. But she's gettin' used to our 
ways now and aint so bad. She's lots o' help, too, if she 
4 



50 THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 

docs shirk some, and I don't see how I ever got along with- 
out her. 

Polly stamps feet, off c. d. 

Sarah. There she is now. I wonder what she's been 
up to. 

Enter Polly, c, shaivl over her head, shaking off snow, she 
holds up her apron, in which are four eggs. 

Polly. Boo-o-o, it's cold! 

Sarah. You can't expect it'll be hot, this time o' year. 
Where've -you been ? 

Polly. Out to the barn, ma'am, after de eggs. 

Sarah. How many did you get ? 

Polly, {ppoiing apron and counting') One — two — free — 
four. Four, and one more. 

Sarah. That makesy^z't'. Them hens don't lay worth a 
cent, lately. 

Polly. No, ma'am, Pse only jest goifo?ir. 

Sarah. Why, four and one is Jive. 

Polly. Not dis time. You see, I — I — dropped one. 

Sarah. You didf 

Polly. Yes, but deedy I didn't mean to. It dropped 
out o' my apron right onto de hard ice by de barn do', and 
it broke. 

Sarah. You don't say ! Probably eleven eggs out of a 
dozen wouldn't break if you dropped 'em on hard ice. 

Polly. Golly, guess I'll try it when I get time ! 

Sarah. You needn't, you little goose. You go into the 
kitchen and peel some potatoes ; a good lot, too, 'cause you 
know who's comin', and I'm goin' to give 'em a good hot 
meal. 

Polly. Yes ; Mr. Ogdcn and Miss Grandon, only they's 
07ie now. I always know'd they was in love. They used 
to act awful gone and get dreadful spooney. I cotched 'em 
at it sometimes. 

Sarah. You mustn't talk such dreadful slang. I thought 
Melinda Jane had been learning you different. 

Polly. Oh! golly, I forgot. {Skips off, r. u. e.) 

Sarah. Gracious ! She'll break the rest o' them eggs, 
if she aint careful. 

Enter Dorothy and Melinda, r. u. e. Dorothy in black 
dress, pale. 

Sarah. Here you be at last. I wondered why you 
didn't come down-stairs. How be you feelin', Dorothy? 

Dorothy. Quite well, thank you, Aunt Sarah. 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLT-Y 5I 

Sarah. That's good. You look kind o' pale, though. 

Melinda. It's that black dress. I've been tryin' to per- 
suade her to put on somethin' bright. What'U Mr. and 
Mrs. Ogden think to see you all dressed in black, as if 
'twas a funeral ? They won't think you're very glad to see 
'em. Will they, Sarah ? 

Sarah. I'm afraid not. Haven't you got something 
with some color in ? 

Dorothy. Yes, but I have worn black ever since — 
since — ^ 

Melinda. Yes, ever since you came here, and before. 
We know when and why, but that's no reason you can't 
chirk up a little, now that some of your friends are coming. 
Aint you glad ? 

Dorothy. Oh ! so glad ! It will be a treat indeed to see 
Mr. Ogden and Alice, even though they are so closely con- 
nected with the sad past. Yes, I shall be vety glad to see 
them. 

Melinda. Then go and put on one of them pretty 
dresses. You've got plenty of them. 

Sarah. Yes, do, dear. 

Dorothy. I will. You were so kind to invite my 
friends here ; you have been so good and done so much 
for me that I would be very ungrateful to displease you 
now. I will do as you say. 

Sarah. Not if it hurts you, Dorothy. 

Melinda. No, no ; I didn't think of that. 

Dorothy. It does not hurt me. It is best. I would not 
like to cast a gloom over the happiness of Alice and her 
husband, as I am sure I would were they to see me now. I 
will try my best to be cheerful, at least while they are here. 

Melinda. That's the way to do. Isn't it, Sarah ? 

Sarah. Yes; of course it is. 

Dorothy. Then I will go. I will return soon. 

Exit Dorothy, r. u. e. 

Melinda. Well, she's doin' wonders. I aint seen her 
look so bright as that sence her husband left her. Dear 
me, I wish she could stop lovin' him. He aint worth a 
single thought. 

Sarah. But she never will. She'll love him as long as she 
lives. Don't you suppose they'll ever get together again ? 

Melinda. It's doubtful. Yet they may. You know 
Miss Grandon — that is, Mrs. Ogden — wrote fne a letter, too, 
'long with Dorothy's ? 

Sarah. Yes. 



52 THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 

Melinda. And .one thing she said kind o' give me 
hopes that she knew something too good to tell. 

Sarah. Why, what did she say ? 

Melinda. {takes letter from pocket) Here 'tis. {Reads) 
" We have a great and sweet surprise for Dorothy and all 
of you ; but do not tell her a word. You will know all 
soon after we arrive." 

Sarah. Why, do you suppose it's her husband — Jack 
Dunning ? 

Melinda. {gla?icing r. u. e.) Hush, she may hear. Yes, 
I do. She couldn't mean anything else. They must have 
found him while traveling around on their weddin' tower. 

Sarah, Oh ! I hope so, for Dorothy's sake. 

Melinda. Yes, for she'll never be happy without him. 

Polly, {loudly, off r. u. e.) Say, come and see if I've 
got 'nough potatoes ! 

Sarah. Yes, in a minute. Dear me, that child always 
wants something. 

Melinda. I'll go. You know I was goin' to mix up 
some of them biscuits ? You say yourself that I can make 
'em the best of anybody in Juniperville — even you, and I 
aint braggin', either. 

Exit, R. u. E. 

Sarah. Dear me, I'm about upset. Company comin', 
and a newly married bridal couple, too, on their tower. 
Such a responsibility. I hope everything '11 go off all right. 

Enter Hiram, l. u. e., in another siiit, collar and necktie in 
ha?id. 

Hiram. There, Sary, they're changed. Was I very long ? 

Sarah. No, you done pretty well, for you. 

Hiram. For me, eh ? Always some slur. 

Sarah. Now, Hiram ! 

Hiram. That's all right ; you didn't mean nothin'. You 
never do. 

Sarah. Now, I guess you're slurrin' back. Well, we'll 
call it even. 

Hiram. All right. Say, Sarali, button on this collar, will 
you ? I've had an all-fired hard tussle with it, and it's too 
much for me. I'd ruther hoe an acre of potatoes than wear 
a biled shirt and a starched collar for ten minutes. Wouldn't 
I look good enough without the collar ? 

Sarah. No, of course you wouldn't. Come here, I'll fix 
it. {Sits and takes collar and tie. Hiram about to kneel in 
front of her) 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 53 

Sarah. Don't get on the floor, you'll spoil your pants. 
{Rising.) Here, you sit down there. {He sits, she attempts 
to button his collar on band.) 

Hiram. Oh ! oh ! don't pinch so ! 

Sarah. Did I ? 

Hiram. Mebby you didn't, but I don't know what else 
you'd call it. 

Sarah. Well, never mind. It's on now. Now for the 
necktie. {Fixes tie.) 

Sarah. There, now you're all fixed. 

Hiram. Much obliged. I feel fine enough to go sparkin' 
a gal. Guess I will. 

Sarah. Hiram Boggs ! Who ? 

Hiram. Why you, of course, who else could it be ? 
{About to embrace her) 

Sarah. O Hiram! {Sentimentally}^ 

Sleigh bells heard in distance. 

Hiram. They're comin' ! 

Sarah. Yes, that's them. Is my hair straight? How do 
I look ? 

Hiram. You look all right. Prime as a peach. 

Sarah, {straighteniiig things) I hope everything's in 
order. 

Bells heard nearer and nearer, finally at door. Horses 
heard. Wu. Hk^ky outside, cries," Whoa/ J]7ioa .'" Hiram 
and Sarah £o to door, c, ope?i it, Hiram goes out. 
After pause, re-enter , followed by Percy aiid Alice, covered 
with snow. They britig in bags, etc. 

Enter Melinda, r., wiping hands on apron. 

Melinda. Oh ! how de do? How de do ? I'm so glad 
to see you ! {Kissing Alice.) 

Alice. Dear Miss Boggs, it is indeed a pleasure to meet 
you again. 

Melinda. And Mr. Ogden, too, I am very glad to see 
you. ( They shake hands) 

Percy. Thank you. Miss Boggs, I am sure the pleasure 
is mutual. 

Melinda. Let me introduce you. This is Hiram Boggs, 
my brother, and Sarah, his wife. Sarah and Hiram, of 
course, you know this is Mr. and Mrs. Percy Ogden from 
New York. Land, you ought to feel acquainted, I've told 
you all about each other, often enough. 

Hiram. We do. Welcome to Cowslip Farm. 

Sarah. Yes, friends, the heartiest kind of ;i welcome. 



54 THE FRUIT OP^ HIS FOLLY 

Percy and Alice. Thank you. 

Sarah. Take off your things. (Percy mid Alice re- 
move wraps ; Sarah takes them) 

Entei' Polly, r. i e., stands back, bashfully. 

Percy. Ah, ha! Who's that, over there? 
Alice. Why, if it it isn't Polly Flinders ! Come here, 
Polly, and shake hands. 

Polly, {drawing nearer^ Be you glad to see mey too ? 
Alice. Yes, indeed we are, very glad. 
Percy. Of course we are. 

They shake hatids with Polly. 

Polly. Golly, Pse glad ob it. I didn't know but mebby 

you'd forget poor little brack Polly, 'mongst all the rest, and 

I was goin' ter cry, 'cause Pse tickeled most to death to see 

yoH. {Blubbering) It seems so good, it most makes me cry 

for joy. ^ ^ 

Runs qff,R.i E. 

Mflinda. Land, that child thinks her eyes of you. 

Sarah. Polly's a good gal. 

Hiram. Yes, she's half the farm. I don't see how we 
ever run things afore she come. 

Melinda. Pve tried hard to learn her things, and she's 
improvin', some. But she aint perfect yet, goodness knows. 

Sarah. You needn't take all the credit, Melinda Jane. 
Aint we all done well by her ? 

Hiram. We've tried ter. 

Melinda. And so you have. I aint one to brag, only 
you know I felt a sort of a responsibility, seein' I brought 
her here and tried to make somethin' of her. Pm willing 
to own you all helped. 

Percy. I dare say you needed help. Miss Boggs. Polly's 
quite a case. 

Alice. But, after all, I think she is an apt pupil. 

Melinda. Yes, apt to forgit all you tell her. But she's 
improvin'. 

Sarah. I guess you'd like to go to your room, wouldn't 
you ? Melinda, you show 'em up. Will you ? 

Melinda. With pleasure. 

Sarah. And Pll go'n see about supper. Pm sure you 
must be 'bout starved. 

Percy. I doubt not we can do justice to whatever you 
set before us; Mrs. Boggs. Our appetites are not at all con- 
spicuous by their absence, and we have had quite a journey 
you know. 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 55 

Hiram. Don't doubt it. And the ol-d lady's been bakin' 
up and plannin' things to eat for a week. She'll fill you 
chuck up, and on good things, too. There aint a better 
cook in the county. 

Sarah. Now, Hiram. 

Hiram. Wall, there aint ! 

Sarah. The proof of the puddin's in the eatin'. Let 
them judge for themselves. {Going, r.) 

Melinda. Sarah, look at them biscuits, will you ? 

Sarah, (^pausing) Yes, I must own up, at any rate, that 
Melinda Jane can beat me at one thing, and that's biscuits. 

Hiram. Yes, the old maid comes out ahead on biscuits, 
and no mistake. 

Sarah. Come, Hiram, you can help me. 

Hiram. All right. 

Exit Sarah and Hiram, r. u. e. 

Melinda. Old maid! Mebby I be, but it aint my fault. 

Percy. No, indeed. 

Melinda. That is, I mean, it aint because I had to be. 

Alice. Even so. Miss Boggs, you need not be ashamed 
of it. 

Melinda. I aint. 

Alice. But where is Dorothy? We are impatient to 
see her. 

Melinda. She's in her room and will be right down. 
I'll go after her. She's chirked up wonderful over your 
comin', and I know it will do her lots of good. And, oh ! 
say, you said somethin' in your letter about a great sur- 
prise. Is it him f 

Alice. Her husband? 

Melinda. Yes, Jack Dunning. Have you found him ? 
Have you brought him back ? 

Alice. You have guessed aright. 

Melinda. Then he is comin' ? Sure ? 

Alice. Tell her, Percy. 

Percy. Miss Boggs, your heart has told the truth. We 
have found Jack Dunning, explained all, and brought him 
back to his wife. 

Melinda. Thank Heaven ! 

Percy. Yes, for Heaven helped us. 

Melinda. And vv^here is he ? Is he here ? 

Percy. Yes, even here. We confided in your man, who 
met us at the station, and he is hiding Jack until the proper 
time for him to appear. 

Melinda. This is too good \£> be true. ( Wiping her 



56 



THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 



eyes.) O dear ! I can hardly believe it ! Won't Dorothy 
be happy, and won't we all ? 

Alice. Yes, indeed. Miss Bogg-s, it will fill our cup of 
happiness to the brim. Do you think Dorothy can stand 
it? 

Melinda. Stand it ? Bless her dear heart, of course 
she can. Joy never kills. 

Percy. True. I am sure we need have no fear. 

Melinda. But come, we will find Dorothy, and then you 
must have your supper. Sarah'll have a fit, if it gits cold. 

Percy. And we are right hungry, too. At least, I am, 
for one. 

Alice. And /, for another. 

Melinda. How you talk ! Aint you both one, now ? 

Percy. Yes, but we eat for two. 

Alice. Or more. 

^xi/, R. u. E., laughing. 



E7iter Polly, r. i e. 

Polly. O golly ! such a spread. Aunt Sarah's got it 
all fixed out in dar, and dey's goin' ter eat now. I s'pect 
I'll git a bite. Dar's biscuits and honey, chicken and pie, 
and I dunno half, but it jest makes dis chile wiggle. I 
s'pect we's going ter hab a reg'lar jubilee. 

Wm. Henry opens centre door, and sticks head in. 



Wm. H. 
Polly. 
Wm. H. 
Polly. 
Wm. H. 
Polly. 
Wm. H. 
Polly. 
Wm. H. 
Polly. 
just me. 
Wm. H. 



Wm. H. 
Polly. 
Wm. H. 



Hey, Polly ! 
Who's dat ? 

I say, Polly Flinders. 
Oh !' is that you, William Henry ? 

Yes, it's me. Come here. 
What you want ? 

Go tell Mr. Boggs I want to see him. 
Well, come on in. 

Naw, I'll wait out here. 
No, come on in. Dar aint nobuddy here only 

All right. 

E7iter William Henry. 

Go tell him. 
Yep. You wait. 
I be a-waitin'. 

Exit Polly, r. i e. 



THE FRUIT OF PUS FOLLY 57 

Wm. H. {looking off R. u. E.) There they be, all settin' 
down to supper. And Mis' Dunnin', too. Poor, pretty 
creatur', I'm glad for her sake her man's come back to 'er. 
But it'll be lonesome here at Cowslip Farm without her and 
Polly Flinders. 

Enter Hiram, r. i e. 

Hiram. Well, William, is it all fixed? 

Wm. H. Yes; Mr. Dunnin' he's in that room there 
{pointing l. u. e.) as impatient as a young one and restless 
as a cow's tail in fly-time. 

Hiram. All right. Sarah's got it all made up with the 
rest of 'em to send Dorothy out here, and we'll send Jack 
out, and let 'em have it over between 'em. See ? 

Wm. H. Yes, I see. Gosh ! it's jest hke a novel book ; I 
vum if it aint ! 

Hiram. So 'tis, William Henry ; so 'tis. Come on, let's 
have it over. 

Wm. H. Yes ; the sooner the better. 

Exit Hiram, l. u. e., followed by William Henry. Enter 
Sarah r. u. e. 

Sarah. O dear! I'm all in a flutter! {Looking "l. u. e.) 
He's in there. {Looking r. u. e.) And she's in there. 
Well, what we want now is to have 'em both in here. I do 
hope this is the end of their troubles. Goodness knows 
they're had their share. But I mustn't waste no more time. 
O dear ! it's real romantic ! 

Exit R. u. E. Pause, after which enter Dorothy, r. u. e. 
She wears brighter dress. 

Dorothy. There is no one here. What did Aunt Sarah 
mean by saying there was some one to see me ? She must 
have been mistaken. {Going R.) 

Enter Jack, l. u. e., unseen by Dorothy. 

Jack. Dorothy. 

Dorothy. That voice ? It is Jack ! {Sees him.) 

Jack. Yes, Jack your husband. Dorothy, can you for- 
give me ? {Abojit to kneel to her.) See. on my knees — 

Dorothy. No, no, not on your knees, but on your 
heai^t I 

He opens his arms, she falls into them. At front of stage. 

Jack. Dorothy, my wife ! Can you forgive me ? . 
Dorothy. Forgive you, Jack? This is the opportunity. 



58 THE FRUIT OF HIS FOLLY 

the moment I have hoped and prayed for. I do forgive you. 
And we shall never part again ! 

Jack. Never, until death. But I have been so bad, so 
cruel ! 

Dorothy. Nevermind. I, too, have been to blame. We 
will forgive and forget all. 

They embrace and stand silent. Enter, r., Sarah, Percy, 
Alice, Melinda, and Polly ; l., Hiram and William 
Henry. They foi'm half-circle at back and sing " Auld Lang 
SyneT Picture. 

slow curtain 

end 

Note. — Specialties may be introduced in the fifth act, if 
convenient a male quartette of farm hands to be called 
" The Homespun Quartette." The quartette may sing softly, 
outside, during the meeting of Jack and Dorothy. 



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